These Shores Are Not Like Yours
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: After Mary's death, John flees a shadowy government agency bent on using him and his daughter as pawns in their genetic experiments. Mycroft Holmes sends his best Tracker after them, his brother Sherlock Holmes. Eventual johnlock, eventual redemption - some character deaths Rated M spoilers in reviews Part I of Home From the Sea
1. Battled Tide

**A/N: So – yeah – muse hit me in the head &amp; came up with this one – a bit inspired by johnsarmylady's fics in the **_**Helikean Series. **_**Fic title and chapter titles taken from Tori Amos song **_**Selkie**_**, which should give you an idea of what's up with John (or at least one of the things). Now that is a lovely, melancholy sort of song and this story is going to dark places. If that's not your thing I understand.**

**Thanks to johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for checking out my flawed works and putting up with the fact I have 3 stories on the go – again!**

1\. Battled Tide

"This is your Captain, Roger Douglas speaking. We will be landing at Stanfield International Airport shortly. Please ensure your tables are folded, and your chairs are in an upright position. The temperature in Halifax is a pleasant 24 Celsius, and the tower is reporting clear skies. On behalf of Air Canada, I would like to thank you once again for flying with us and we hope you enjoy your stay in Nova Scotia. Cabin crew, please prepare for landing."

John leaned over and gently shook Molly awake. "Sweetheart, you need to wake up now. We're almost there."

"Tired Daddy."

"I know, love. Once we're there, you can sleep all you want, but I need you awake when we land and go through customs." He leaned in further and whispered in her ear. "You're better at it than I am. Come on, kiddo."

Molly rubbed her eyes and stretched. She blinked sleepily at her father. John's heart clenched. Her colouring and the shape of her face were all his, but her eyes and nose was her mother through and through. He shoved the thought of Mary way down inside. Now was not the time to become distracted. He began gathering up their items and stowing them in the two backpacks they'd brought on board; books, toys, a nearly empty box of biscuits.

_Cookies,_ he thought, _you need to get used to calling them cookies._ Other words flitted through his head, words he'd been speaking for ten years or more as he blended in with the average English citizen.

Blending in was something they had taught him and something he usually did well. Here it would be easier because here was home, but that didn't mean he wouldn't slip up. He was running on empty fumes fuelled by bad airline coffee and adrenalin. He hoped Mike had got his message and was waiting for him at the airport. He needed some place safe to collapse until he could make other arrangements.

Arrangements that included contacting his father.

_Now there's something to look forward to. I'm sure I'll be welcomed with open arms. 'Welcome, home son! Pull up a chair. Kettle's on. Oh, using your gifts for evil were we. Get out of my house.' Or something._

After reaching under the seat for one of Molly's shoes kicked off during the fight he put it back on her foot, gave it a pat and smiled at his daughter. She smiled back.

"Love you, Daddy."

"Me too," he whispered, tears closing his throat. _Dammit! Stop this right now!_

The flight attendant passed through checking seatbelts. She paused at John's seat. John flashed her a brilliant smile and projected calm thoughts around Molly and him.

The attendant's smile widened. John could see her attraction to him almost immediately. He dampened down the charm a little. He must be out of sorts. He didn't need the added headache of trying to get rid of unwanted company.

"Will you be needing any help disembarking from the plane, sir?" The level of emotion fell off a bit and now he could handle this better.

"Thank you, but no. I think we will be all right." He fell into to the rhythms of his old accent without much effort.

"Will you be staying here long or is it just a visit?"

John sighed internally. He didn't need to call attention to himself. So he lied.

"Just a visit. Seeing family for a few days and then on to other parts."

The attendant's face fell. "Oh, that's too bad. Well, enjoy your stay. Halifax is lovely. Maybe I'll see you around. I'm in town for the week."

John just smiled and gently shoved the woman off. It wasn't hard to give her a push as she had duties to see to before they landed and securing the cabin was at the forefront of her mind. It made him tired, though. Mary had been so much better at this.

After the plane stopped at the terminal and passengers began to move, he stood up from his seat and pulled down the small overnight bag from the compartment above. Slinging his backpack on, he helped Molly with hers. He picked her up and grabbed the other bag with his free hand. The line to disembark moved fairly smoothly. Molly put her head down on John's shoulder. He murmured to her. "Remember no falling asleep. You need to get us through."

"All right, Daddy."

"Same as at Heathrow, okay? "

"Yes." Her lisp was a little more present due to her tired state.

John walked quickly down the gangway and out into the international section of the airport. He waited for the next available agent. Being a small airport and a fairly quiet time of day, there were only two agents on duty. John projected calm, innocuous thoughts toward the woman while Molly smiled at her.

"Passports please." She looked at the passports and glanced at their faces with a slight frown. It should be too soon to have been placed on a watch list, but just in case John had shown Molly how to blur their names and faces. He felt a surge from Molly and the agent's face cleared. "This looks in order. Thank you, Mr. St. Clair and to you too, young Emily. Welcome home." She stamped their passports and waved them through.

The surge of adrenalin reduced once more as John made his way through the doors out to luggage claim. By the time he arrived, the carousel was moving, and suitcases began their decent. A seemingly endless wait and the nondescript bag holding what remained of their possessions circled past. John had put Molly down briefly so he could snag it.

"All right love, you'll have to walk for a bit, just until we get to where Mike should be waiting." Molly nodded resignedly.

"Does he know we're here?"

"He should. He got the message. I can't contact him to confirm, though. I had to ditch the phone."

She looked up at him with her ancient looking eyes. "'Cause of the bad men?" she asked. He and Mary had trained her since she could talk not to say certain things in public, but she, like him, was exhausted and forgot sometimes. That and the fact she was five.

He looked at what was left of his world and smiled. He didn't have it in him to scold her, and he doubted anyone had heard anyway.

"Yes love, but let's talk about it later, shall we?"

She nodded, the flexibility of her age, her mind already on other things.

Customs was just a fast as neither had anything to declare and the agents believed they were returning from a short vacation, not John returning after a ten-year absence with an added family member. Immigration would have been far trickier if they'd known the truth.

The doors to Arrivals slid apart, and John swept his eyes across the crowd waiting for passengers to come through. In amongst the various relatives were a few drivers with signs waiting for clients and there he was, near the edge, hiding in plain sight. John could see Mike projecting, but no one else would even notice him. A surge of relief so intense it was almost painful flooded his body. Mike's familiar face clouded with grief but upon spotting John, it cleared momentarily and his big friendly grin shined like a beacon at John and Molly.

John reached his side and threw an arm around his friend in a one handed hug with Molly as part of the embrace. "Mike, thank God you came."

Mike's big beefy arms went around them. "How could I not come? Ah, my friend, it's so good to see you again. I'm sorry it's under such horrible circumstances. I know. Okay? You can't talk here, but I know. We all do."

John grimaced, but the news had always travelled fast through the family. He nodded shortly and wiped at his face, trying to clear the cobwebs of travel, sorrow, and fear. He couldn't say anything even if he wanted to. Being home, even though they weren't yet safe was such a relief.

Mike continued talking as if he hadn't noticed the struggle his old friend was going through. "Gretchen's waiting with the car. Here, let me take that bag." He turned to smile at Molly, who was looking at him with quiet curiosity. "You must be Molly. How do you do?"

Molly solemnly shook his hand. Mike chuckled and then turned to John. "Good Lord, she's the spitting image of you as a boy." He led the way to the airport parking, pushing through crowds with practiced ease.

John picked up Molly again and followed after. Eventually reaching the car, he saw Gretchen, and through the hug she gave him, heard her whispered, "I am so sorry, John. We were both devastated when we heard the news. But you're home now. We'll get it sorted. You're with family." She glanced at the child in his arms. "We'll protect you."

John shook his head at her. "I appreciate it Gretchen, but not now and not here, okay?" He was shorter with his cousin than he meant to be, but it had been a long trip, and he was nearing the end of his tether. She recognized the signs of exhaustion in him and merely smiled. "Come on, let's get you guys some place safe."

John nodded again and looked at Gretchen with eyes drowning in misery. "I don't know if there's any place like that left in the world."

She hugged him again and whispered. "There's one. There's always been one." He let her take Molly from him so she could buckle her into the car seat. "We borrowed it from the Odell's. Do you remember them? Their youngest is old enough to go about without one now. Good timing that. Here you go, Miss Molly." Gretchen was talking just to make conversation. It was her way when things were tense or strained. She had to fill in the silences.

John slipped into the back of the car on the other side of Molly. He checked on her before doing up his seatbelt. She was already asleep and would likely remain so until they reached the seclusion of the cottage at Narrow's Basin. With his luck, she'd be wide awake after all the rest and as good as she had been on the flight, she'd be ready for some activity.

The engine purred to life, and Mike backed out of the parking space. John wasn't even aware of reaching the highway. He too fell asleep, his first real rest since Mary had been killed in front of him three days before. It took over an hour from the airport to the exit at Mahone Bay. He didn't wake again until the car climbed the gravel driveway of the old cottage.

The sound of the tires on the gravel shook him out of dark dreams. Lifting his head from his cramped position he saw out the car window the moonlight on the basin. The smell of the ocean called and sang to him, and there was a level of intimate awareness surging through his blood, into his bones and he shivered. This, even more than Mike's face or Gretchen's assurances, gave him the knowledge he'd arrived back at the house he'd grown up in and told him he was home.

oOo

"Sir? Sir?" The sound of young, fresh legs racing after him, made him feel momentarily old. He turned, a cold smile at the ready. He considered a reprimand to the young aid racing up the quiet halls after him. Really what was with young people these days? Where were decorum and manners? Did they teach nothing in the public schools anymore?

He merely raised an inquiring eyebrow, acknowledging the aid with his usual emotionless stare. The aid at least recognized the signs of having crossed the line.

"Sir, you said you wanted to be informed, sir, they got away. Lost at the airport."

Incompetents. He heaved an internal sigh but remained unruffled on the surface. Bad business when one of the few people who could have detained Watson and his daughter, was Watson himself. The aid was practically shaking in his shoes. Bearer of bad news, indeed. He took the sheaf of papers George was waving around.

"Please inform my brother I wish to speak with him. Immediately."

George paled. "Your brother, sir?"

"Yes. Problem?"

He knew the young assistant was close to bolting. No one in their right mind would wish to speak to his brother. But it was a fair and just punishment for not behaving appropriately. Perhaps if George survived the encounter with his emotions intact he would learn a little decorum. If not there was always another waiting to take his place, in spite of the inconvenience of having to train someone new.

Without another word, Mycroft Holmes made his way to his office, a seemingly modest affair, a suitable cover for a minor position in Her Majesty's government. He didn't require the trappings that others sought. He was and would always be far more in control of the lives and liberties of ordinary British citizens than many knew.

It helped him sleep well at night to know he held lives in his hands.

He crossed the floor to sit behind the desk as he continued to shuffle through the papers in his hand. After a thorough study, he placed them neatly on the desk and rang through to his secretary.

"Please step into my office, my dear."

Anthea arrived promptly.

"Pull the files on John Watson and his daughter, Molly. Might as well bring me Mary's as well."

"Sir, will you be wanting the confidential files or the fabricated ones?"

"The confidential files, please. Thank you."

She nodded; a small knowing smile graced her lovely face. What would he do without her? As she was about to leave the phone on his desk rang. He rolled his eyes. Knowing who was on the other end caused difficulty and he really didn't have time for the histrionics Watson's escape was bound to create throughout the halls of the upper echelon.

Anthea smiled at him and answered the phone for him.

"Mycroft Holmes, Anthea speaking. Yes, sir. Yes, sir, he is available. Right away, sir." She passed the phone to Mycroft and raised her eyebrows at him. He merely grimaced and answered.

"Yes, sir. Yes, he managed to escape but we believe we know where he's headed." A convenient lie to stall for time. "Yes, he has the girl as well. No sir, we did not intend for…yes, I am aware of the cost. No, I will have my best tracker on it right away. Yes sir, I do mean him. He is the best. Yes, a bloodhound. Once he has them in his sights, they will not escape. Right away. I will keep you informed." He hung up without any further acknowledgement. It grated when he actually outranked the man on the other end, who was a complete idiot, but appearances were everything.

"When Sherlock arrives, send him in immediately. And Anthea?"

"Sir?"

"Prepare the documentation and pack a kit for him."

"Sir," she turned and walked out the door.

A short time later a commotion in the outer office alerted him to the fact his brother had arrived. The door burst in, and a tall, pale, unruly individual flew through. There were few who could fathom how the two were related and even fewer realised how close they actually were, both alike in thinking, certain skills and ruthlessness.

"Sit down, Sherlock. I have an assignment."

"I prefer to stand."

"Very well. Here are the files. His name is John Watson. He has left the organization without permission and has taken his daughter with him."

Sherlock picked up the file on John Watson and glanced through it.

"Always enjoy how you assume I will do your bidding. Ah, the husband of the agent killed three days ago. How careless of you, brother dear."

"Sherlock, it is imperative you bring them back, preferably alive, especially the girl. Her father is also important, but if you have to choose, then kill him, bring his body back at all costs and get the girl."

Sherlock looked up from the file. "She has both characteristics, does she? Intriguing. Molly; named for a friend. Tedious. Mycroft, the minutia your clerks keep on file."

"Yes, but it is often the minutia which speaks the most eloquently. You may wish to start with the friend. That little bit of information may help you discover where they went."

"Do not tell me how to do my job. So it's true then? Not just one of your genetic experiments?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. No, he is the real thing. When he entered our program, the DNA he provided, forced the changes through much more quickly. And then we paired him with his wife and their daughter was born. She is the real prize. Sherlock, it is the girl we want. Her genetic markers and the potential of what she could become makes her very, very valuable. Watson is too, for different reasons. He was one of our best. More controlled that his wife and less likely to turn himself over to the enemy."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I see he missed that, too."

"Love is a chemical defect, Sherlock. Clouds judgment and impairs one's ability to think and be objective."

"Thank God we're both above that."

"Quite. Speaking of which I do note, he is rather your type."

Sherlock looked at his brother; a hard smile played on his generous mouth. "I do not fuck every person who is my type, nor every assignment."

"Vulgarity, brother. You come very close, though, don't you. It seems to be a trademark of yours. You might consider it your reward if you succeed."

His mind back on the file in front of him, Sherlock answered with feigned indifference. "I always succeed."

The only other person who could truly read him duly noted the expression of artificial disbelief upon his face. Mycroft knew his brother would not say no. "How soon will you start?"

"Anthea already has my kit packed and documentation. I will start immediately."

"And when will you be back?"

"Give me a week, two at the most and I will have them."

"I count on it."

His brother started to leave the room but turned back and smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "Oh and I am afraid I may have damaged your other aid. Glenn was it? But he disturbed me when I was in my mind palace."

Mycroft just nodded and turned back to the paperwork on his desk. There was nothing that could surprise him anymore.

He sincerely hoped Watson would be caught alive. There was still valuable material there, but if not, he mentally shrugged, the daughter was young enough, with the right training she would make the perfect agent.


	2. Broken Hearted

**A/N: Thanks mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over. **

**Just one note about 'Timmie's runs' – it is a Canadian thing mostly – when one goes for coffee at Tim Horton's coffee place, particularly for a take out order it is called a Timmie's run. **

2\. Broken Hearted

Sherlock sat in an overstuffed wing-backed chair in the quiet of the small flat and breathed in the various remains of decayed odours. He added the scents into a catalogue of what he had already observed regarding Molly Hooper. The list included personal items, photos, the alarm clock and book beside her bed, even the mug and plate in the sink. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he saw the room again and tracked the morning she would normally spend.

Molly would leave her bed at 5 a.m. She'd shower and dry her hair, dress for the day, grab a quick piece of toast with butter and jam and a mug of coffee, leave food for the cat, currently missing, and head out the door. Sherlock could hear in his mind the turn of the lock as she left, the lock that had easily opened.

That is what she would normally do, but evidence showed that she hadn't been back to her apartment for a couple of days, plausibly disappearing around the same time as Watson and his daughter.

Standing, he crossed the room to investigate the bookshelf. As Miss Hooper was not here, she must have gone somewhere. If he had helped someone leave the country, someone valuable to Mycroft's pet project, he too would leave, but the question was where. His eyes were drawn to the photographs, framed and carefully placed. A thin veneer of dust lay on the shelves and in one spot the faint, rectangular outline indicated a picture frame had been removed. Almost immediately another caught his eye an older picture of Miss Hooper and a man whose resemblance to her indicated familial ties, most likely her father. They were standing in front of a cheerful cottage. He removed the gloves he always wore and touched the frame.

Impressions swirled into his head. He closed his eyes as vertigo took over and emotional residue flooded his system. Feelings that were not his, alien and uncomfortable, like wearing someone else's clothing, washed through him.

His hand shot out to steady himself and shook the bookcase slightly, rocking it enough to rattle several knickknacks. A feeling of nausea and a flash headache caused him to double over. He retched, but as he had eaten nothing that day, nothing came up. He rubbed his forehead and gulped air until he was stable again. The emotions were there, itching his skin; joy and contentment, pleasant feelings of having a safe and happy childhood. Grief and sorrow muted and shaded were also there, loss, perhaps her mother. He wiped at tears trailing down his cheeks indifferently. The emotions settled soon enough, and he was able to stand upright again. Carefully removing the picture from the frame he flipped it over. On the back in neat printing were the words _Me and Dad, Malton, Yorkshire, 2005_. He looked more carefully at the shelves again and found a similar, older photo of the same cottage, this one with three people in front of it; Molly, the man who must be her father and a frail looking woman. He didn't touch that one. The emotional residue would be more profound, and he didn't relish the thought of more dry heaving.

"So that's where you are. Family vacation spot, fond memories, loss of mother not that long ago. You feel safe there." A smile, chilling and cold, lit his face. "I've never been to Malton. I believe I need a vacation."

He pulled out his phone and checked the trains. There was one that evening, leaving at six p.m. Perfect.

Exiting the flat quickly, he made his way down to the street and hailed a cab. Directing the driver to take him to King's Cross, he sat back and annoyance at yesterday's dead end came to the forefront of his thoughts. After leaving Mycroft's office, he had gone straight to Watson's flat. He had been able to get a sense of the family life there and had garnered a few clues. The Watsons had been far more careful in what they displayed than their friend had been. Pulling at his lip, he wondered again at the odd feeling he got whenever he touched personal objects in their home. It had been disconcerting to say the least. There were thoughts and feelings there, but he couldn't access them, brushing the surface, but as if he were seeing them through dark glass. He could almost sense them, touch them, but they would slide out of his grasp. It would be rather intriguing and somewhat refreshing if it were not ultimately frustrating. He had initially ignored his brother's suggestion to try the friend, Molly Hooper. He knew he'd get information from the flat, but Mycroft had been correct, and here he was tracking down Miss Hooper in the hope she would lead him to the Watsons. Mycroft knew something about John Watson he was not sharing. Stupid that, it made his job more difficult. It was almost as bad as being some detective, having to grub around for clues in the flat.

The cab pulled up, and he hopped out, tossing some money at the driver. Taking a moment, he wrapped his coat around him like armour and ensured his gloves were on properly. He avoided crowds when he could, but with a wait in a busy station and a three-hour ride to Malton, he would have to exert care and caution. He closed his eyes again and centered himself. A deep breath and he was ready to go.

There was a certain relish to the idea in preparing to take a life. He almost hummed to himself as he entered the station. Molly Hooper should provide some interesting entertainment.

oOo

Fortunately for John, Molly was exhausted from the flight and the unfamiliar surroundings. It was both quieter here and noisier with the strange sounds coming from the surrounding woods as well as the whisper of the waves on the shore, far different from the rattle and hum of London traffic going past their flat. Exhausted because she'd lost her mother at the age of five and didn't quite know what was going on, the sleep she'd benefitted from on the plane hadn't been enough, and she slept through the night. She was still sleeping when John crawled out of the bed they'd shared and went downstairs. He thought that maybe starting with coffee would help get him through the long day ahead. He'd not slept as well as Molly.

Through the night, John and Molly had snuggled together in the bed in the room that had been his growing up. It was a little squished, but they both needed the simple contact of being together. He was glad she was with him because she whimpered in her sleep and called out once for Mary. John pulled her close, stroked her head and said, "It's all right, love." Molly turned, sighed and fell into a deeper sleep. Tears coursed down John's cheeks. He cried as quietly as he could so as not to wake his daughter. He wanted to howl and rage; a huge black hole opened in his chest when he thought of Mary, running toward him, a look of fear on her face just before her head was blown in. John had stood there stunned, his mouth gaping, an easy target for whoever had shot his wife. The question of why he hadn't been would have to wait.

He looked out the window of the old kitchen at the garden his mother had loved, now neglected with her death, as he waited for the coffee to brew. He tried to sift through the last few days of the emotional wreck his life had become.

"Hey," said a sleep-roughed voice.

John turned around quickly, adrenalin shooting through his system, instincts at war with the knowledge that for now, this place was safe.

"Harry," he croaked, "Jeez, don't sneak up on a guy." He stepped up to her and gave her a quick hug. She had arrived at the house shortly after he had alerted by Mike that he and Molly were coming. He had warned Mike not to divulge any details. Enough information was loose and floating around. He would tell her himself face to face. The night before had been a hug and a mug of tea, some non-talking moments before he had stumbled to bed with his daughter, craving some peace and quiet to pull himself together.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks for your honesty."

"That's what sisters are for." She smiled at him crookedly and asked the awkward question hanging between them. "So big brother, is now a good time to talk? I kinda want to know how come I had to leave. There were some lovely young things at the meet up this year." She winked to show she didn't begrudge leaving, not for him. They'd had their differences in the past but deep down they knew they'd always come through for each other.

"Dad still speaking to you, even though you are 'An immoral creature, going against God and nature'?" He poured her a mug of coffee and reached down another mug for himself.

"He's still too pissed off at you for leaving and marrying an outsider. I'm just a black sheep while you are a traitor. Besides lots out there think we were all immoral creatures and more of the devil than God," she said good-naturedly. "Although he will melt into goo when he sees his granddaughter. God John, she is adorable." She took a sip, sighed with intensity as the caffeine worked its magic. "Ah, that's better. Been living off fish for the better part of a week. Not that I am complaining, but coffee. Can't exactly do a Timmie's run in the middle of the freaking ocean."

John chuckled, then sobered almost immediately. "Harry, I wanted to come home, so many times, it just…I just…Oh shit." He rubbed at his eyes as tears welled up, trying to hold it together, trying to stay strong. Harry put down her mug and reached over and relieved John of his. Then she wrapped her arms around him and held him as he began to sob. The release of being able to cry was painful. He hadn't been able to for fear of waking up Molly or after Mary was killed because he'd had to hold his shit together to get them out of England. He made up for that by soaking Harry's dressing gown.

"You cry yourself out, hear me? Fucking Watson men, all think they fucking don't need to cry now and then. God, when mum died, all I got from Dad was grim silences. Maybe if he'd had the balls to cry, he wouldn't be such a tight ass."

John chuckled wetly and rubbed at his face. He looked at his sister and smiled. The tight, hurt ache in his chest had loosened a bit. "Thanks, Harry." He grabbed some Kleenex, blew his nose and picked up his mug again. "Swear like that in front of Molly and I'll smack you."

"I'll behave."

As if hearing her name summoned her, they both turned around at the sound of a small voice at the doorway. "Daddy? I didn't know where you were." Her eyes were still puffy with sleep, her hair mussed from tossing all night, and she looked at him with the type of disgust only a five-year-old can portray.

John reached down and swept her into his arms and gave her tickly kisses. "Sorry, kitten, I left you sleeping. Want some breakfast? Eggs?"

"Uh-huh and juice."

"Juice and eggs it is. You remember Auntie Harry from last night? Say hi!"

"Hi, Auntie Harry. Are you like Daddy or are you like Mummy?"

"Morning, sweetie. What do you mean? Am I Daddy's sister? Then yes."

"No. Can you turn into a seal like Daddy or are you all spooky and invisible like Mummy."

The cartoon of eggs dropped to the floor, smashing several. Despite having threatened Harry earlier, a distinct "Shit!" came out of John's mouth.

Harry's mouth opened and closed rather like the fish she loved to catch. She looked at John, eyes wide, "Uh…"

John mouthed at her, "I'll explain later." He swiped some paper towels and cleaned the mess up on the floor, rescued the remains of the eggs and tossed the towels in the garbage. He then grabbed a frying pan out of the cupboard and turned on the stovetop, before addressing his daughter in a serious tone.

"Harry's like me, love. But remember what I said before, you can't blurt that out. It's private, and we don't talk about it just anywhere."

"I know Daddy, but she's not a stranger, she's like you. And we're here. You said it was safe." She drank some juice and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

John passed her a napkin. "Yes, I did. Use that, please. I haven't had a chance to tell anyone about Mummy yet."

She seemed more interested in her juice for the time being, so John decided to drop it. Harry had other ideas.

"Uh, John?"

"Later Harry. It's a long story, and I only want to tell it once, so we'll wait for Dad."

"What the hell were you up to in England?"

"Later Harry."

"But…"

"Harry, Mary may not have been Kin, but she had her own gifts. That's all I'm going to say about it." He gave her a warning look before turning his attention back to the eggs.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, love?"

Molly looked at John with solemn eyes. "Mummy's not coming back, is she?"

John breathed out, a harsh, defeated sound. "No, Molly, she's not. I'm so sorry."

Molly started to cry in earnest, and John rushed over and picked her up again. Part of him was glad, for she also had yet to cry much, but part of him wanted her to stop, and he would do anything in his power to prevent her from hurting the way he knew she was at this moment.

Harry turned and busied herself with the eggs to give them a few moments of privacy.

"It's okay Molly. I'm here. It's okay." He told her over and over, murmuring it in her hair, even though he knew it never would be and he was lying to her for the first time in her life.

Later, after cleaning up the tears and a sketchy breakfast, John changed into swim trunks, and a t-shirt put Molly into her suit and took her to the dock across the road. It was a beautiful day, high, clear blue sky with wisps of mare's tails floating across. The air was sweet, cleaner than London and the smell of pine trees mixed with the ocean breeze. John's heart, for the moment, felt lighter than it had for a long time and his skin shivered again. Harry trailed behind them, carrying towels and a book. She planned on lying on the dock reading while John gave Molly a swimming lesson.

"I just got out of the goddamn ocean; I'm not going back in just yet," was her snarky reply to his question of whether she'd be joining them.

John squinted at the light, bright and clear, sparkling on the water and sighed as he took in the view. The Narrows Basin was a lovely place. Three inlets made up the area and were not quite cut off from the ocean by a long finger of land and submerged rocks that stretched around to meet the other shore. A deceptive opening, big enough to sail throughout to the darker ocean beyond, was easily navigated once you came close to it. Crow Island sat in the middle of the cut, making it more of a challenge for the local sailors.

There was a stretch of road in front of the house and then a scattering of bushes, including blackberries and a mass of wildflowers, all leading to a rocky beach. A dock had been built, more for appearance sake, than any other reason. Rocks didn't bother the Kin much, but there were enough humans living around the shore, one still had to be careful.

The water looked cold. It would be warmer in the Basin than out on the ocean, but it was still a lot colder than most like. It wouldn't bother John. He was pretty sure it wouldn't bother Molly either, but he didn't know.

The Kin can bath like regular humans in fresh water. It took the added element of salt to begin the change. When Kin were young it was involuntary, but as they grew they could control it to some degree. He and Mary had talked long into the night on many an occasion, wondering which traits of her parents Molly would show. John was pretty sure she would have both characteristics and perhaps some of her own. They never had the chance to test their theories, mostly because they didn't want the agency to find out.

John was curious to see if Molly was more like him. If someone came after them, it would be the easiest way to slip away and hide. He could have tried in England, but he didn't know most of the Kin there, didn't know if they would hide him, being what he was, doing what he did. If he had been wrong and she couldn't change then, they would have lost valuable time.

"Molly, I'm going to go in the water, and once I'm under, I'll change. You sit here and watch with Auntie Harry. When I'm ready, I'll change back and then you can come in and try. I need to change for a bit first because it's been awhile."

Molly sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she crossed her arms. "Yes, I know. You told me already." Wanting to get into the water and try becoming a seal was very exciting; she was impatient with John and his obvious stupidity.

He smiled. "I know, but I don't want you jumping in. There're lots of hidden rocks and…"

"John, for the love of Pete, she knows, just get in the frigging water!" Harry didn't even look over the top of her book to yell at him. She continued to mutter, "goddam idiot fish-eater, talk less, swim more."

Shaking his head, he stepped onto the wooden ladder and down into the ocean. If he had been human, the frigid temperature would have caused his breath to suck in and more than a few curses to come out of his mouth. He might even have changed his mind and not bothered. But he wasn't human, he was selkie and the ocean welcomed him with a warm embrace. The muscles in his legs relaxed. It had been a long time since he had been able to change and his body was ready. It took enormous willpower not simply to give in. Although the basin was fairly quiet, there were enough people about that a sudden change into a seal would be a cause for talk. He was waist deep when he fell back into the water. Surreptitiously removing his t-shirt and trunks, he threw them on top of Harry with a wicked laugh. She muttered almost audible curses at him, remembering not to swear in front of Molly. He swam out a few lengths and took a breath, before going under.

In human form, John could hold his breath longer than most. Selkie, like their seal cousins, could hold theirs for at least thirty minutes, sometimes up to an hour in extreme conditions.

He opened his eyes and looked around. The ability to see clearly underwater without the salt bothering him was another blessing. Thin bands of gold light, turning the water into different shades of green streamed down, and he enjoyed the play of light as it shifted through the water. The Basin was fairly clean for an area inhabited by humans, and there were plenty of fish. Something in the animal part of his brain quivered, and he honed in on a nearby school. It had been a long time. He floated for a few moments longer and then closed his eyes and concentrated. It was as simple as that, in between heartbeats.

It was exhilarating to glide and swim through the water, his form sleek and lean. Strands of seaweed grabbed at him as he raced through. Flipping and turning, he somersaulted over the waves and back down to the bottom, rocky with patches of sand, colonies of mussels growing just waiting for him to eat. He revelled in the sheer freedom of swimming, far faster than he'd ever be on land. He played chase and tag through the fish, not quite catching them just yet, more for the pleasure of the hunt. Complex emotions shut down, although he retained his memory. Mary's death still affected him, and he mourned for his mate but it was transmuted, and he was able to put it to one side. It was a reprieve, much needed and he could look at things more objectively or as objective as a seal can get. Interestingly anger was still very present; he hadn't realized how furious he was. It had been hidden underneath the need to survive and the mounting sorrow. His mate had been killed, butchered in front of him and he was feeling murderous. There would be time to examine that later, so he took his fury out on the fish.

He skimmed the bottom scaring up school after school. Harry would be madder than a hornet with the energy he was wasting, but this was fun. Finally realizing he had been down here a while he spied a likely looking school and caught one before it knew what had happened. He bit into the flesh with relish. Some of his anger drained with the feel of live food in his mouth, the fight for its survival drained it away.

Swimming near the dock, he breached the surface. With a toss of his head, he threw half of the fish onto the dock at his sister's feet. She glared at him over her book and went back to reading. Molly looked up from her sulk, and her eyes gleamed with unholy joy as she recognized her father in the water.

Remembering John's words of warning not to shout out his name, she lay on the dock and held her hand out. He swam up closer and gave her hand a whiskery kiss, before splashing water up at her with his flipper. She laughed and shrieked.

Before he could change back, a shadow crossed over Harry who immediately sat up, shocked. Molly also stood in surprise, a look of curiously at the newcomer. John ducked under, changed back and came up again ready to fight. The person standing on the dock was hard to see in the glare of the sun, but his voice was easily recognised, one he had hoped not to hear for a while yet.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you ever grow up, boy?"


	3. Gaze Upon His Face

**A/N: Thank you mattsloved1 for once again catching things I miss:D**

**Ummm…only a little sorry:D**

3\. Gaze Upon His Face

Holding the lock of brown hair in his hand, he rubbed his finger and thumb back and forth as he looked down at the still form. A sob welled up inside, swiftly clamped down. Tears coursed down his face, this time not ignored. It's one thing to touch a picture frame or any other object that only holds the brush of stale emotions, but to contact a living entity, full to the brim with thought and feeling; that was different. Especially one who held such promise and joy, sorrow and pain, to engage with them and then watch them wither and die simply because you could reap their emotions from them. That needed to be acknowledged and given its due.

She had been pretty as far as these things went. Not his type, but still one could appreciate the aesthetics. He carefully traced her face, committing her to memory, in a special locked room where he held all of them. Crouched at her side, recovering from the intake of her emotions, nausea and vertigo rapidly receding, he watched her. It was at this moment he'd feel truly human, awash with her feelings. She had given him that. His inability to created emotions that weren't faked replaced by this temporary final gift. He could taste the colour of her thoughts. Fear was sharp and flavourful. Acceptance at the understanding of her death, rich but more muted. Swirling throughout was an edge of anger, the bright notes, flooding his senses. It was not for herself but for the people she had tried to protect.

He sat back on the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs as he tried to control the thoughts that rolled through him, information, which need to be tamed and channelled to find the important bits. He sifted and stirred looking for the shiny pieces others wouldn't recognize were the key to finding Watson and his daughter.

Unable to breathe deeply because of blocked sinuses due to extended crying, he reached for a tissue and wiped his eyes and nose. Better now, he could concentrate.

He pursued the image of John Watson speaking quickly to Molly Hooper. It darted silver quick, like chasing a fish in a stream. There it was. He slowed it, played it back and heard the voice of the man he was tracking.

"I'm not going to tell you, Molly. If you know, they'll kill you."

"They're going to kill me anyway, simply for helping you."

Sherlock paused the memory and studied the face of John Watson. It was one thing to look at a static photograph and learn the identity of an individual from a file. It was another to watch their face, mobile and warm, very much alive. And it was a beautiful face. He was definitely Sherlock's type.

There was something there, something so intriguing. Here a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. He knew. He knew how much danger he had put Hooper in and yet he did it anyway. There the sympathy of a man who was honourable, but the life of his daughter was in play and he would do anything, everything for her. He could see it in the blue eyes, darker than navy, ocean blue, like the Northern Sea. Although this was a sympathetic and compassionate man to friends and family, he was also a trained killer, a ruthless agent, efficient in his duty. The love of the father in him shone out clear as Sherlock slowly played the memory forward and saw the glance he gave his daughter. So much complexity, so many layers. To touch him, to live his thoughts, that would be something. He must have this man.

Looking through Hooper's eyes, Sherlock focused on the small figure standing beside her father, clutching his leg. She had obviously been crying at one point, but now stood with a straight back and a kind of defiance Sherlock found exhilarating. He could sense the wonder Hooper felt for her; she knew there was more to this child. What that specifically was, she couldn't say, much to Sherlock's annoyance. But that wonder held inside led to more obscure thoughts and feelings.

A long-ago dinner party, Hooper one of the guests, speaking quietly with Watson's wife, Mary, her belly round with the child.

"John's so bloody stubborn. Won't tell his father we're married, won't tell him we're pregnant. Leaves it to his sister to give him the news." A heavy sigh. "John says there's nothing more stubborn than a Maritimer, who thinks he's right. I said takes one to know one."

"I didn't know John was Canadian."

A look of shock crosses Mary's face. "Oh shit. I must be tired. I don't muck up like that often. Molly, please don't say anything. Few know. John likes to keep it that way. Says they can't use his family against him."

"Surely they already know. They know everything, Mary."

"Hmmm, that he's Canadian, yes, but not specifically where and who. He's been able to control that. His family is very cautious, very quiet and secretive. John says that's why he doesn't speak about his family, to keep them safe, but he doesn't because of his dad."

"Oh?"

"Yes, head of the family and it's a large family. I need to shut up now. I've said too much. Forget this please, Molly. Unless you need to remember."

"Mary, what's going on?"

"There's always a contingency plan, Molly."

The memories shift, leading to another thought, this time an overheard piece, shortly after the girl's birth, her namesake held in her arms as the tired parents murmur together. Hooper hadn't even realized she'd heard anything but Sherlock's gift wiggled it out. It slotted into place, the reference too obscure for Molly, but Sherlock saw the significance, someplace to start.

"Maybe someday we can take her, introduce her to my family and the places I grew up, take her for walks along the old train tracks back to Common Lake. Head into town and show her how pretty it is there, quiet and peaceful. All the ships coming into the Bay in the summer."

"Oh John, that would be lovely. Maybe retire there."

That was it, but it was enough.

Wiping his eyes a final time, he sat up and replaced his gloves. One last look at the deceased, a silent thank you for allowing him to feel once more, if only for a few minutes, Sherlock let the emotional residue seep out. It wasn't something he could keep for long, and it would interfere with his abilities if he did. He had to be above it all, circling, only dipping in now and then. He was always grateful for the chance to explore; never sorry to stop the burden and frailty of being normal from holding him down.

He left the little cottage and pulled out his phone. Bringing up the Internet, he searched Common Lake, Maritimes. Easy peasy. There it was, in Nova Scotia. Not far from Narrows Basin, and look old train tracks on the map and everything, nearest town, picturesque Mahone Bay, come for a visit, a treasure since 1754. Watson had made it too easy. Really, Mycroft's people were useless. They should have known, should have found this out. Of course, they were only human.

Trains back to London wouldn't be available until later the next day; he'd spent so much time with Miss Hooper. He quickly thumbed a well-remembered number. As much as he disliked speaking to his brother, preferring to text, this was more expedient.

"Brother, how are you?"

"You are only this smug when you feel the need to lord something over me. What is it?"

"I found out where they may have gone, the family home."

"And where would that be?"

Sherlock paused. He could get there on his own, but he'd get there quicker with Mycroft's help. "Promise me Mycroft."

A heavy sigh echoed over the phone.

"I already have, Sherlock. He's yours. Bring the girl back when you're finished, just don't make it too messy and be quick."

Sherlock gave Mycroft the details of where he was located and sat down and waited. It would be awhile before Mycroft's minions arrived and he could lose himself for a few minutes in planning out what he needed to do next.

He could lose himself in thinking about John Watson and how he definitely would make it slow, slow and beautiful. He was never messy.

oOo

"Oh for fuck's sake, Dad, don't start in on him already!" Harry stood up and glared at her father; her arms crossed and anger radiated out from her short frame in almost palpable waves.

John stayed in the water, treading. He couldn't very well climb out starkers, not with his father, sister and daughter all standing there. That and he really didn't want to confront his father without some armour in place, even if it was only an old pair of swim trunks.

The man in question was of similar colouring to his two children. He was taller than Harry, not as tall as John, but he was stockier, with the weather-beaten look of a fisherman. His face was slightly scarred, nose squashed from being broken more than once. John knew exactly how Jack Watson had earned the marks on his face. One didn't get to be head of the Kin by sitting on the beach, loafing.

"Language, Harriet. There's a child present." Molly looked at him and shrugged, not in a cheeky way but as if she was far more interested in the grandfather she'd never met than her Auntie Harry's foul mouth.

Jack leaned over the edge of the dock, spit and said, "Get your ass out of the water, boy. We have things to discuss." There was no irony in his tone; he was oblivious to his own commonplace swearing as he had not been of Harry's harsher words. He turned to walk away but was stopped by the cold voice of his only son's response.

"I'm not your boy, anymore. I'll get out after I've taught my daughter to change and not before." John had faced down scarier men than Jack Watson, but he was seven years old again and looking at his feet as his father yelled and raged over the broken shed window.

Turning around, fast and furious, Jack said, "What are you playing at? What the hell do you mean you haven't taught her to change yet? Are you insane? It's our first line of defence."

John continued to glare but said nothing.

Jack scowled and in an out of character move, reached down and tossed John his swim trunks. "Get a move on, boy. There's a selkie waiting to be greeted." He turned to Molly, looked her over with keen interest and a strange hunger as if he had found something he hadn't known he was missing. He grunted at her, turned and stalked back across the road, presumably to the house.

With a self-conscious grin, John said, "It's nice to know some things don't change. "

"Yeah, well I wish to freaking god they would sometimes, eh?" She crouched down beside Molly and said. "Wanna have some fun?"

Molly scrambled to her feet, an eager expression on her face. "Yes, please." She was too intrigued at what might happen to think much about the loud, angry man who had grunted at her. Harry helped her out of her suit. Humans wouldn't think too much about a naked child as they would an adult and Molly couldn't be in her suit when she changed. Not only would it not fit right, but it would also be constricting and could prove hazardous.

"Okay, chickie, here's how it goes. You are going to climb down that ladder, and your Dad is going to hold you. When you get in you may feel a bit funny, or it may take a few minutes. Sometimes the change happens right away, and now and then it takes a few tries. We don't fret 'cause it's all about when the time comes. Now you are a special case because your Mum wasn't Kin so it may take a bit of time."

Harry walked Molly to the ladder and held her hands ready in case she needed to grab her. Molly had no inhibitions. She practically bounded into the water. John had barely swum into place when she launched off. He and Mary had given her regular swimming lessons, but this was different. He grabbed hold of his daughter's arms and held her out away from himself.

"Okay, sweetie. Now this is what we call greeting your selkie. The seal lives inside us. But she sleeps until it's time to come out and play. You're going to float on your back and close your eyes and think about swimming." John spoke in a hushed sort of way, slow and steady. Molly was a natural swimmer and knew how to float easily. She laid back, her hair spread out in an aura around her head, her eyes screwed up tight.

"Daddy, the water tickles."

"Yep, sweetie, that's a good sign. Try to relax and breathe deeply. You don't have to squeeze your eyes so tight. Now if you are very brave you can dunk under the water, but here's the trick. I can't explain it, it is something that just happens, in between heartbeats. You can sort of help by thinking about how a seal moves and thinks."

"Think of fish, Molls," called Harry.

"Thanks, Harry, very helpful." He whispered to Molly, "Auntie Harry loves fish almost as much as she loves coffee."

Molly giggled. And then in the next breath she went under. John could feel a well up of anticipation. His daughter looked up from under the water at him; she blinked, and John was holding a fairly large baby seal in his arms. He was grinning like an idiot and trying not to cry from a combination of joy and sadness. Mary would never see this moment.

"Oh my god! She did it!" Harry whooped and jumped up, shedding her clothes and with a reckless plunge joined them. She surfaced beside them, her whiskery seal face nudging Molly's stomach.

John stayed human to help his daughter figure out how to float in this new form. As a young seal she would need to build up her ability to hold her breath. Wild seals take weeks as pups to learn to swim, but selkies have the advantage of thinking like a human. Teaching Molly to swim as a human gave her a certain advantage. She would also be vulnerable to predators although there weren't many in the Basin. Her biggest worry would be getting caught around lobster pots or submerged branches. As a young pup she wouldn't be allowed to go out in the ocean for a while.

John helped her find her way around, and Harry joined in supporting her with her body. Soon Molly was able to move a bit. They celebrated by Harry catching a fish, which she gave to John, who in turn fed it to Molly. He laughed at the look of surprise on her face when she bit into it without thinking. John hadn't been able to get her to eat fish at all before this.

After a good couple of hours, John said enough was enough and guided Molly back to little girl form. If she got too tired it would be harder to change back and this was enough excitement for one day. He promised her, as he wrapped a towel around her that they could come every day to practice. Harry picked up the bits of clothing and towels as well as her book and watched as her big brother led his chatty, excited daughter back up to the house.

She sighed quietly to herself. Their idyllic afternoon was probably over for a good long time.


	4. Lovers Who Were Torn Apart

**A/N: Thank you mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for checking this over for me:)**

Chapter 4. Lovers Who Were Torn Apart

The kitchen was a temporary refuge from the storm that had begun to brew inside the cottage. John sat and fiddled with a cold cup of coffee. Harry looked at him steadily; her facial twitches conveyed some esoteric signal of support. Their father sat opposite from them, his arms crossed and a thundercloud expression on his face. Molly seemed oblivious to the charged atmosphere, but John could tell by the way she snuck glances at the three adults that she was fully aware there was something going on.

When they had returned to the house, John had pulled together a lunch fit for a young girl of five who had turned into a seal for a few hours. There were bread and tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese and tuna fish, a mishmash of items thrown haphazardly on the table, what his mother had called a 'Nana lunch' after her own mother's Saturday afternoon meals; bits and pieces of food laid out in a help yourself manner. Molly had looked askance at the tuna still not convinced her human mouth would enjoy it. John had chuckled at the expression and had told her if she tried it again, now that she'd eaten it raw, he'd let her have a slice of homemade blueberry pie with ice cream as starters. Molly had tried it, pulled a face and said she preferred her fish raw.

For the sake of Molly, they had kept talk at the table civil, but now it had been consumed and a clutter of dishes and uneaten food left on the table, the tension began to mount. An odd thrum had started at the base of John's neck, a portent to what could only be his mounting anger at his father's attitude and a past between them that would not be easily repaired. He hoped he would be able to keep it under control, but he had never been particularly calm when dealing with his father. The added emotional instability he was experiencing did not bode well.

Before the day got much older, John knew he would have to tell his father everything. Trouble was there was a lot Molly was too young to hear. Harry didn't want to offer to entertain her; she wanted to hear John's story and knowing her brother, he'd be reluctant to tell it more than once.

"Harry, why don't you show Molly the boxes at the back of your closet, the ones with your old toys and books and things. She can look at those while we talk," Jack said, his tone reminiscent of his younger self, barking orders at his children

"I brought some toys from home too, kitten," added John.

Molly looked at Harry and asked, "Do you have any Lego?"

"Why I think we do. Come along, Molls; let's see what we can find." As she shooed Molly ahead, she turned back and whispered, "Don't you dare start without me."

In the heavy silence that followed Molly's departure, John abruptly stood and began gathering dishes, taking them to the counter beside the sink. He and Harry would wash up later, falling back into their childhood routines. Somewhat to his surprise, Jack also stood from the table and began to put away the leftover food. He raised a belligerent eyebrow at John, "What? Who do you think does it when your off to bloody England and Harry's out chasing down half of old Jefferson's harem?"

John blinked slowly as the import of what his father had said sunk in. He barked a laugh. "She didn't?"

His father grunted.

"That must have been something." He grinned as he began to scrape the plates and stack them neatly.

"You don't know the half of it. Had to give that old SOB first rights to the spring run."

John sobered again. His father was proud. That would have been shameful in his eyes. He'd had first rights, won fair and square, for nearly thirty years. Nothing more was said between them, as hands were kept busy. John wished his mind were the same. Although his father was a quick-tempered and often volatile man, he still respected Jake's ways with the Kin and knew that he was a good leader of his family. Just because he didn't like his children much didn't mean he wasn't the right person to lead their clan.

The earthy smell of the well water brought back another wave of memories and his mother's gentle voice. Adding washing-up liquid, he caught the words on the bottle, both in English and French and it hit him once again that he had been thinking in terms familiar to him for the last ten years. He gripped the sink as once more simple reminders pulled him up short. They would never be able to go back to England. Canada was their future; he and Molly would probably always have to hide amongst the Kin.

"Is it so bad?

"Is what so bad?" He turned to see his father standing there with an almost hurt expression.

"Living here again? With your people? Is it so bad and do you hate me so much?"

John leaned back against the counter, puzzled. The words and sentiments coming out of Jack's mouth did not sound anything like the man who had raised him. Jack stared down at the floor and looked like he was struggling with what to say. He seemed almost as surprised as John at the things that had just dropped out of his mouth.

"Dad, I…" he didn't get any further as Harry strolled in.

"Well, that was easy. I dumped your old box of Lego on the floor and told her to get at it. Said I'd be up in a bit, and we can try making some sense out of the bricks, what without the plans. Said she didn't care, and she can use her imagination." Harry grinned at John, but her face fell as she sensed that something had happened between her brother and father.

John just nodded and threw the dishcloth he was using into the sink and walked out to the front room. Crossing the large room, biggest in the small cottage, he stopped in front of the fireplace. Leaning against the mantel, looking at the knickknacks his mother had collected, mostly from the bottom of the ocean, he understood it would be easier talking to the shells and corals than face his relations. The sound of Jack and Harry entering the room was but a faint whisper in the overall cacophony of the images and sounds churning in his brain. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, the uneasy reticence he usually carried within him, the familial inability to share, frowned upon in a much younger John and Harry, was hard to overcome. Suddenly, out of the depth of his anguish, he just started to speak, knowing the sooner he said what he had to say the sooner his father would kick him out. Probably demand that Molly stay with the Kin. He was very tempted to let him.

"Do you remember that night, when I walked out?"

"Aye. Can't forget, seeing as it broke your mother's heart."

"Dad!"

"Harry, shut up or leave. You know as well as I that she weren't the same after."

"Jeez, Dad," Harry muttered under her breath. "Timing."

John stared at his clasped hands, squeezing them hard, trying not to lash out at his father. The thrum clattered, banging against his shields, whispering to him to set it free and let it lash out. The leaving had been done because of the man sitting in the room with him now, not because of his mother and everyone knew it, deep down inside.

"It's okay, Harry," he said. Having said that, everything after came out in a bit of a rush. The story he told was only known, the full of it, to one other person and she was dead. He needed to share the burden his life had become. "After we fought and I left, I went to Halifax, thinking I could find work. I hung around for a bit, checking out the docks and even thought about going up the coast to the little inlets. Reckoned I'd be good on a fishing trawler. I made a bit of money and decided I wanted to see what else was out there. I stayed in the States for a while and then moved on, taking odd jobs here and there, mostly with fishing. Even worked on one of those Tall Ships they have for the tourists. Eventually, I headed for England. I went to London, saw the sights, half fell in love with the place. I was figuring I'd make my way up the coast and find work before moving on. London was different from anywhere I'd ever been, so I stayed longer. Did some things I'm not proud of, did others that I am. Drifted about for a bit and fell in with some interesting people." He paused and fiddled with a sand dollar, large and pink, the pieces inside, like tiny doves, waiting to be released. Once broken the whole would be shattered, unable to be mended, but the thoughts inside would be free. Comfort found in the strangest places. He continued, "There is strange folk out there, in the world, stranger than us, all kinds of what the humans would call fairy tales. We don't know the half of it." Turning to the window he looked out on the Basin, the sun still shone, juxtaposing the dark memories. Odd to look at the gleam of the water and seagulls flying over it when it was dark in his head.

"One night, the rain was teeming down, and I was walking along the Thames, thinking how much I was missing the ocean when I was approached by a woman. She said that someone was very interested in me, people had talked, and I'd been watched for a time. There was a man she said, and he had a proposal. She asked me if I would be interested in some unconventional work. It would pay very well, but was discreet and I couldn't tell anyone. I asked what kind of work and she said for the British Government. I said I was Canadian, and she said it didn't matter. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was taken to a warehouse where I met this man. Cold and civil he was, screamed civil servant, much fancier than any MP we have around these parts, but government all the way. Repeated what the woman had said, that I had been watched for some time. They knew certain things about my abilities, and that they wanted me for a program, they were starting. I said I wanted more information, and he said I'd only get that if I joined. I said I wasn't interested if I wasn't going to be told more than that and that he could take me back where he found me. He said that was disappointing but he understood, and the woman took me to the exact spot she'd found me."

He wiped his face, brushed the memories thick like cobwebs aside and thought about Mary. Mary whom he had loved at the beginning like nothing he had before or since, the one bright spot in his life until Molly had come along. "Shortly after that I met Mary. She was so very different from any of the women I'd dated before. She was confident and funny. She had this laugh and a way of crinkling up her nose. I had never felt complete before, and I almost believed she…" he cleared his throat, afraid to go on, afraid he'd cry or sound stupid. Harry would understand, but not their father. "I thought she was the one, who…"

"Oh God, Johnny. You thought she'd hold your skin for you." Harry half whispered. He gave a short jerk of his head.

"It sounds ridiculous, but she just seemed so perfect and came at the right time. I swear I heard the waves in her laugh and my heart just followed her everywhere. She liked the same things as me, and it was just perfect."

"She was the lure, wasn't she?" asked Jack, his voice low and dark, played on the vibrations in John's skin, a discordant note.

John swivelled to look at Jack. "How…?"

"Go on, tell me the rest.

John narrowed his eyes, thinking quickly. "Yes," he said. "She worked for the same agency, but I didn't know that at first. She was much better and subtler than the man I met in the warehouse. Let's just say that when she convinced me to work for them I went quite willingly."

"You told them, didn't you?"

"I told them only that it was me. I did not tell them there was anyone else."

"More the fool, then. They must know; they know, and when they come here looking for you, they'll be hunting us, too. You stupid, stupid boy."

A thrill coursed through him, the noise in his skin and head rushed with unholy joy, pushing at his barriers, begging John to let it strike down the man in front of him, the man who had ruled his younger days with an iron fist. His hand clenched at his side; anger thrust out from him toward Jack. "For the last time, I am not your boy!" With a yell of fury, he pushed it in front of him and shoved it at the intended target. Clutching at his throat, Jack collapsed to the floor. John could only think in terms of red waves of heat. His vision blurred, and his focus narrowed. All of the rage that had been hidden underneath the sorrow, all the anger the seal had recognized came boiling up. Jack's look of surprise was ignored, as was the sound of his sister's voice in his ear telling him to stop.

It was when he heard the soft voice of Molly on the stairs calling out, "Daddy?" her worry and fear crashed through the barrier in a way no one else, even Mary, would have been able to do.

He whirled and saw her standing there, her eyes, just like Mary's, huge and frightened, and he covered his face. He sobbed into his hands, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over again, but he wasn't sure if it was to Jack, or Harry or Mary or even himself. Some of it, most of it, was to Molly.

A small touch on his arm and he got himself under control. He put his hands down to see Molly standing there, hands on hips. "It's okay, Daddy. Remember? You told me sometimes we can't control it. Sometimes we get so angry, and we have to let it out or it will hurt us, but we mustn't ever hurt anyone. It's okay."

With one last sob, he grabbed Molly and drew her to him, holding her tight. He stroked her hair and said, "Yes honey, you're right. I said that. I'm so sorry." He turned Jack who seemed to be recovering. There was a look of astonishment on his face, but he didn't seem angry, only thoughtful.

John asked, "Are you all right?"

Jack nodded curt and abrupt as always as he said, "What the hell did they do to you?"

oOo

Sherlock had boarded the private plane provided by Mycroft, settled himself in the rather luxurious seat and informed the young man who was waiting to serve him champagne and orange juice that he was not to be disturbed or bothered. He would sleep and only if the plane was in danger was he to be awakened. By no means do so by touching, prodding or shaking him, not if he valued his job.

Or life, he thought, hiding a smirk. It wouldn't do to inadvertently cause someone's death or at the very least render them incapable of simple thought or feeling. It would create havoc and cause problems when the plane landed. Although knowing Mycroft's people as he did, they rather knew they were in a dangerous line of work.

He rolled himself up into the blanket provided, and he willed his breathing and pulse to slow. He did sleep or at least as close to it as he was capable. Indeed, it would be restful and renew energy spent, but his mind, ever busy, would continue to work, to track and catalogue information he had gathered about the Watsons. It would make connections and tease wisps of information, bring it together in new ways. He shut down all of his other mental processes and concentrated solely on the two people he had been assigned, but something unintended happened. His thoughts and attention kept straying from both targets and concentrated on one, John Watson. No matter how hard he focussed or directly pushed his mind to think about both, he continually felt it returning to the images and conversations he had garnered from Molly Hooper. He would stop and look with longing and hunger at the man he would probably have to eradicate.

The entire journey was spent in his subconscious, and before he knew it, there was a voice telling him they would soon be landing in Halifax. He pulled himself out of a less than satisfactory scrutiny of the intelligence and accepted a warm cloth from the flight attendant who passed it to him with the use of tongs. Having just come out of the steamer, there was very little emotional residue attached to it. More like having a hair touching your face, one you couldn't quite find, than anything. Wiping his hands and face, he deposited it back on the tray and watched the approach of the plane to its destination.

After landing, he grabbed his only piece of luggage, a small carry on and disembarked. A sense of unease walked with him, faint and indistinct. Why would he think so much about John Watson?


	5. Hiding Behind Rocks

**A/N: Please excuse the detailed directions on how to get to Mahone Bay. I haven't been there for about 18 years so was very excited to see that it hasn't changed much. The B &amp; B described in this chapter is loosely based on a real one I discovered during my research- apologies to the actual proprietors. The roads and directions are mostly accurate. If you have ever watched the show Haven, it was filmed in Mahone Bay and nearby Luneburg, so that will give you an idea of what it looks like and if you find yourself on the East Coast, for god's sake go and visit.**

**Thank you to johnsarmylady for Britpicking – amazing how my brain switches off when returning to write in Canadian:P and mattsloved1 for checking it over &amp; listening to my pompous whining:P**

5\. Hiding Behind Rocks

A car was ready and waiting for him. No one else, with the exception of Mycroft, would have noticed the brief hesitation at the shock of remembering the steering wheel was on the left and driving would be slightly different. It hadn't been deleted, but it was buried beneath far more important things. He tossed his overnight bag in the boot and sat behind the wheel. Taking a moment, he familiarized himself with the controls. Then he closed his eyes and brought up any and all information on traffic laws in Nova Scotia specifically and driving in Canada in general. The car came equipped with a SatNav, already set with directions to Mahone Bay. Information he needed for his accommodations, a Bed and Breakfast, was included in a tourist pamphlet in his packet from Anthea. Most hotels and motels were further away from where he wanted to be, and a B &amp; B would be more private in some ways. He had also found that it was always easier to discover local information speaking to the owners of a B &amp; B, as they wanted to do everything they could to make you feel at home. The thought almost made him nauseated.

It was going through the back of his mind as he pulled out of the airport and found the exit for Nova Scotia-102 South. Approximately fourteen minutes later he came to the Hammond Plains Road West Exit. The drive itself was uneventful. It should be. There was nothing to see except road signs, tourist information, rocks and trees. If he never saw another coniferous forest or shale embankment again in his life, it would be too soon. The whole bloody province was nothing but trees. In less than an hour, he was exiting onto Highway 3/The Lighthouse Route. His B &amp; B was right on the highway, beside one of the three churches considered to be a picturesque part of visiting Mahone Bay. He couldn't wait to finish this assignment and delete all of this 'quaintness'.

The B &amp; B was a Gothic Revival style wooden house, with two gables, painted olive green with a yellow door. Small and neat, it was well kept and clean. A tidy garden graced the front of the house, and there were several wooden chairs with sloped backs, facing the Bay. A plethora of sailing vessels, fishing boats, small dories and rowboats dotted the water. The road curved around to where the small village held a collection of stores and businesses, mostly catering to visitors.

He parked the car around the back, went to the visitor's entrance where he was indeed greeted with warm smiles. He pulled out one of the personas he used when forced to deal with people and made himself charming and accessible. An unremarkable North American accent, the falsified credentials provide by Anthea and the proprietors would never know they harboured a man whose job it was to track down people and eliminate them.

After he was shown to his room, he asked if there were anyone around here he could contact to find information on some long lost relatives, "A distant cousin," and "favour for my mother" was brought up in his spiel.

"She lost touch with that side of the family, and I thought while I was touring around, I could look them up."

The proprietor, Mrs. Tompkins, smiled even more warmly and asked, "And what would be the name of your cousin? I know most around here."

"The family name is Watson," he smiled just as warmly back.

"Oh yes, from over on Narrows Basin, near Martin River. Lovely family, keep to themselves, private if you get my meaning. Come with me," she said and took him out to the front porch. Pointing out over the Bay, she said, "It's dead easy getting there. You can head up there, to that road on the right, you see and drive the scenic route on Oakland Road, but that will take you a good half an hour, or you can go back up to the highway you came in on, and it's about a ten or twelve-minute drive. When you get on the highway, you go a couple of minutes until you get to Station Road. Turn right and then you are going to take a slight left onto Long Cove Road. Anywhere along there all the Watsons live. It's rather a largish family. Most will be a bit further along. Long Cove branches off to Narrow's Basin Road. That's where Jack Watson lives; he's the head of the family." She looked at him, her head tilted to the side. "Like I said, they are private. Friendly when they want to be, but different. Just watch yourself." And she patted his arm. Fortunately for her, he was wearing his Belstaff coat. He intended to change out of it for it was a bit heavy for the season.

With a smile and a thank you, he turned away and let his smile drop. The cold, hard look more at home on his face, replaced it. He made his way up to his room. First thing he would do was change into something less conspicuous, and then he would search out some more information on the Internet. Wouldn't do to go into an unfamiliar area without arming himself suitably.

oOo

Late afternoon light was shifting behind John, as he sat on the front deck. The world had turned, and the sun's position in the sky had changed since he had come out here. The shadows had stretched out monster length, and a breeze had sprung up from across the Basin. It ruffled his hair. Birds, osprey and cormorants, competed and dove for fish, one plunged down from the air while the other bobbed at the top of the water. There was a faint, metallic, slapping sound as the stays on the many sailboats docked around the Basin clanged in the wind. The same wind rushed through the pine trees, the sound somewhat comforting.

The sliding screen door opened with its usual screech and Harry appeared at his side. A cold, wet nudge on his arm and he took the offered bottle of beer.

"Thanks," he said, and he pulled back a large swig. The chilled liquid trickled down his throat and the familiar, slightly bitter taste steadied him. He set the bottle on the deck, where the beads of sweat already began to pool on the wood. If his mother were still alive, she'd have been after him for letting it mark the deck. Glancing down at his folded hands, the melancholy feeling that had been hanging about him since arriving here intensified at the thought of his mother. She would have loved Molly.

Harry sat in the chair beside him, swung one leg over the arm and took a drink from the can of pop she was carrying. He raised an eyebrow in her direction. She in turn waggled hers back his way.

"How long?"

"Well," she replied, as she stretched her arms over her head. "Dad yelled a good deal after the thing with Jefferson's wives. And there were a few embarrassing incidents with the local Mounties, so I thought perhaps it was time to stop acting like I was a teenager and go to an AA meeting. It was, erm, informative." She wrinkled her nose. "'Course there's some things I don't say. Totally anonymous, that part. Love to see their faces though if I started with, "Hello, my name is Harry. I've been sober for six months. My heavy drinking started when my father tried to marry me off to an old windbag seal. Oh and, by the way, I'm a lesbian and a selkie." She laughed; it was a carefree sound and John could see the young woman he had grown up with shining through.

"I've missed this," he said.

"What?"

"You and me, sitting, chatting. I'm so sorry."

"Piffle. You got out of here. You had adventures. Granted some of them were scary assed to be sure, but Christ, Johnny, even if your life and Molly's are still in danger, don't regret leaving here. I wish I could."

"You can you know. Head off, chase your dreams. I'd avoid England for a while, though."

"Who the hell would look after Dad if I did that?"

"You're kidding?"

"Seriously, you have no idea." A hot spark of anger laced her words. "He is a basket case without mom. I've learned a lot about what happened when he gave up tradition for her and divorced his other wives. His leadership was called into question, but he wouldn't stay married to them. Caused a lot of hard feelings and he lost a lot of face. Didn't matter even that her skin was his. Came to the conclusion though that he took a lot of his frustrations on us and not the sibs because he'd already deprived them of other things, them being orphaned from their Dad. Made him feel bad, see. Most of them are still mad at him and us so they won't help out. So now he's alone and except for his duties, he's got no one."

"It's not your job, Harry. You deserve to live your life, too! Screw the sibs."

"Fat chance of that."

John didn't know what to say to that.

"So where did Dad go? I wanted to apologize."

"Pffff! He's fine. Shocked him a bit, but he was a little impressed, too. No one stands up to him. Not even Greg."

"I wasn't so much as standing up to him as trying to murder him."

Harry waved her hand negligently. "He's a tough old bull. So, are you going to tell us how it happened, these super amazing powers of yours?"

John didn't reply. He leaned his elbows on the arms of the deck chair, and he let his mind drift as he turned Harry's question over and decided how best to answer. His meanderings took him back to when he had first met Mary and how bright and promising it had all been. How she had captivated him and eased something in his lonely heart, something he hadn't known he had been missing. Too bad it had taken so long to see it for the lie it was.

When John didn't answer right away, Harry took another sip of her pop and changed the subject, answering the rest of his question. "He took Molly with him over to Greg's. Didn't think you'd mind. He said he needed to consult with him seeing as how some evil, shadowy, government agents might be heading our way from the Motherland." She stuck her tongue out at no one in particular.

John squinted at her. "That would be Scotland, you arse."

"Watch the language there, Johnny. You're back in Canada. Ass."

"Yeah, but lots around here say arse so up yours." They laughed again, breaking some of the tension between them.

"I imagine Greg won't be too pleased, seeing as it's me bringing it."

Harry pursed her lips, looking more like John than usual, with that one expression. "Oh, I don't know. He's changed a bit since Dad confirmed him as his heir. He might even like you now. He does me, and that was something." Another pause and both drank at the same time. A nice buzz was starting in John's brain, not unpleasant and totally opposite of the one that had tried to kill Jack.

A nervous lick of his lips and he shrugged into himself as he said, "It's hard enough going through once. I'll finish when Greg gets here. He should hear it, too."

They didn't have long to wait. A rumbling sound and a battered old pick up shuddered up the driveway. The vehicle, more rust than paint, pulled up and three figures got out, two tall, one short. Molly skipped up the pathway to the side of the house and climbed through the wooden rails onto the deck. She scrambled over to John all bright-eyed and mischief. He swept her into a hug.

"Mmmm, you smell like the ocean, all salty. Did you have fun?"

"Uh huh." She giggled as he kissed her ear, tickling her with his stubble and then she pulled away, hands on her hips, thoroughly indignant. "How come you didn't tell me I have an Uncle Greg?"

"Well, it's, it's, um, complicated. He's sorted of your uncle, but not."

She glared at him. "I like him. He's nice. He has a nice glow."

John looked at her bemused. "A nice what?"

"A glow! You know, silly." She threw her arms wide to the sky and then hugged herself. "I like him," she repeated. Before he could ask her more about it, Greg and Jack had joined them on the deck. Not knowing if it would be welcome or not, John held out his hand to Greg.

A tall man built more like Jack than John was, but leaner, Greg had warm eyes and a kind, handsome face. Not much older than John, his hair was mostly silver. At one time, Greg had refused to acknowledge Harry and John's existence, but it seemed times had changed as he grasped John's hand in a firm, even shake. There had been history between them, mostly due to their mutual father divorcing Greg's mother when he'd met John and Harry's.

"John, good to see you. Your pup is a lively one."

"Thanks, Greg. I reckon she's a keeper. How are things?"

"About to get interesting around here, I'm given to understand."

"Sorry about that. It was never my intention to bring danger to the Kin. I needed to get away with Molly."

Greg nodded slowly. "I would have done the same. Jack here's filled me in some, told me what you said so far, but I guess there's more to it." John noted that Greg continued to refuse to call Jack Dad.

Harry brought over some more chairs. Reclaiming her own, she beckoned to Molly and sat her up on her lap. She levelled her gaze at John, and he nodded. Perhaps some of what he had to say he could say now, in front of her. Molly might not understand all of it, but she knew enough to understand that they were in danger. Besides she anchored him and kept him strong.

John sat back down and after another swig, he picked up where he'd left off, telling them about his recruitment into the Agency. "They took me to a place called Baskerville. High security, no holds bar science lab, but with a military feel. I won't go into all the details right now," and he nodded in Molly's direction, "but I changed there. They knew about my ability to shift into the seal, but other latent gifts were enhanced. Things I think we probably all carry but maybe don't need now that we're civilized."

Harry and Jack, who had seen a little of what John was capable of, shifted uncomfortably. John continued. "Mary had been altered long before she'd met me, as a teenager. She was fully human before going in. What she became was something that's hard to describe."

"Mummy was dark," Molly said very matter-of-factly.

"You said that before, honey," said Harry, "that she was dark and spooky. What did you mean?"

Molly blinked solemn eyes and repeated, "Mummy was dark, very dark."

"It's kind of hard to explain but Mary was able to become, um, negative space, I guess you could say, even she didn't know all of it. She existed but not here, and all that was left was an impression, like, I don't know…"

"A black hole?" asked Greg.

"Yeah, I guess. She didn't suck in matter, though, reflected light more like. Hard to see her like that, almost like she could wrap light around her, maybe. You'd know something was there, but it was more a sense, a tingling."

"How did that help the Agency?" asked Greg.

Jack spoke up, "She could go places and not be seen, right?" he asked John.

"Yes."

There was silence as the implications of what this meant hit home.

Harry blanched. "Good lord, do you mean she was an…"

"Harry," John warned and looked at Molly sitting on her lap. "Yes, she was an a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n."

"Did you know?" asked Jack.

"Not at first. I found out only after. I knew what I did. Some hunting down and returning agents like, well, like me, who'd run off. Other things, some covert ops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Worked for the Americans for a bit. But mine was mostly military. Thought I was helping the war effort."

Harry rolled her eyes. "You were always a bit too Queen and Commonwealth, John."

"I thought I was doing my bit."

"So what changed?" asked Jack.

John felt his eyes well up a bit. "Mary did. Well, that and Molly coming along. But mostly it was Mary. She began getting headaches, and her mood would shift, suddenly. She'd get these rages. There came a point where I couldn't leave Molly alone in the flat with her. And then about a week ago, she told me she'd had enough. She was going to leave, had found out that her problems were because of what had been done to her, to us. She said she was going to go to the other side, she'd been promised they could fix her, and she'd hated what she'd become. I was a fool. I begged her not to that we could go to the Agency. She laughed and then she left. I went after her. I still thought it was all right and good. But as I followed her, they shot her." He couldn't control the tears coursing down his face.

"How did you know it was them?" asked Harry.

"I could sense the agent. He was like her."

Molly had listened to this and had grown still with John's words, but this time she didn't cry over the loss of her mother. She stared out over the water. And then as if to herself more than to the people around her, she said once more, "Mummy was dark. She had no glow left."

The three adults just looked at each other, not knowing what to say.

Later, after they had talked some more and John had told them what they could expect and what to look for if the Agency turned up, he took Molly in his arms and put her to bed. As he tucked her in, he asked, "Molly, what did you mean about people glowing? And Mummy being dark?"

She had been quiet the rest of the evening. Now she looked at him with eyes like her mother's and fiddled a bit with the quilt on her bed.

"You know Daddy."

"No, sweetie, I don't."

"Can't you see it?" She looked at him, puzzled.

"See what?"

"People, they glow. Some are nice, some aren't. You glow all warm and sunshiny, kind of blue and gold, except when you're mad, then it's red and spiky. Mummy was usually green but sometimes when she was upset or sad, she was purple."

John looked at his daughter, and a strange feeling filled his heart. She was too young to know about whatever was going on, and he wanted to protect her from what had been done to her little family for a long time. He felt more than a bit helpless at the turn of this conversation.

"You said Mummy didn't glow anymore. What did you mean?" He was almost afraid to ask.

Molly shrugged, "I don't know. Her glow went away when she started getting headaches. She lost it."

John didn't know how to respond. He kissed her instead and tucked her in. He turned on the nightlight thinking it might help Molly avoid any nightmares that could come up from the earlier conversations she had listened to as well as his angry outburst.

He was wrong

oOo

Sherlock drove slowly past the house. He had tracked down the exact location of John Watson's familial home. After waiting for it to get dark, he got into his car and drove the short way around to the Basin. Coming up the road in the pitch black, he noted there were very few streetlights and the moon wasn't up yet, so he slowed down, pulled over to the side and turned off his headlights. He climbed out of the car and crossed over the silent road to the property. There was a scattering of trees in front of the house and then the driveway and parking. He hid behind the trees and looked into the windows. There were three adults standing together, talking. One could be John Watson, it was hard to tell, but his heart quickened at the thought. He would drive away tonight and make his plans for tomorrow. He nodded thoughtfully and turned to make his way back to the car. He had left before he saw the three had lifted their heads as one to the screams coming from upstairs.

oOo

John raced up the stairs ahead of Harry and Jack and burst into Molly's room. The momentary fear that the Agency had already sent someone to track them here almost stopped his heart. That was a ridiculous notion as they certainly would have been a lot stealthier and would not have wakened Molly.

He turned on the bedside light and plucked his sobbing daughter out of her bed.

"Shh, it's okay. What is it, love?" After a few attempts of trying to understand her through her sobs, he got her some Kleenex and made her blow her nose and then drink some water.

"Ready to tell me now, sweetheart?"

Molly hiccupped through the conversation, but what he got out of it made his blood cold. Even though he knew it was all caused by the earlier conversation about her mother.

"There was a man, outside, on the road. He was standing in the trees. He scared me."

"He's not there, sweetie. It was just your imagination."

"No, Daddy," she cried. "He's dark. He's dark like Mummy. He doesn't glow."


	6. Selkie Puts Her Hand in His

**A/N: Thank you again to mattsloved1 for reading this over for me. Apologies to johnsarmylady for not letting her read it over – I didn't want to interrupt your visit with Himself:D Please forgive me &amp; nag me about things Sherlock would say that I got wrong:D**

6\. Selkie Puts Her Hand in His

By the time Sherlock had returned to the B &amp; B, the moon was well up. It gleamed brightly over the harbour. He parked the car and went inside. On the way back to the small house, he had come to the conclusion that he needed more information regarding the Watsons and their extended family. Maybe there was someone he could use to help capture them or coerce them into returning. A hot anticipation of bringing John Watson back alive, of taking him somewhere isolated, filled his belly. He wanted to take his time with him. Mycroft had promised after all.

An unfamiliar hunger almost overwhelmed him, and he had to push it aside. There was work to be done yet.

Entering the common room, Mrs. Tompkins greeted him. He smiled, his 'I'm harmless' smile. She informed him that there was a small refrigerator in the common room filled with snacks and drinks, and he could help himself to whatever he wished. There was another couple chatting with Mr. Tompkins. Not wanting an audience, he sauntered over to the mini-fridge. He opened it and perused the contents. Not interested in what was inside, neither hungry nor thirsty for that sort of substance, but biding for time to speak to Mrs. Tompkins alone, he pulled out a bottle of fruit juice and a small, individually wrapped piece of cheese. Seeing what he was doing, she scurried over and smiled warmly at him, giving him a look that seemed to say 'you are far too skinny, and I must feed you up'.

While she puttered around a small buffet table, which was filled with various pastries and bread, she asked about his day. He responded with what he hoped was appropriate touristy information; she offered him a warmed homemade scone with blueberry jam, "local berries, you know." He accepted and was surprised at how delicious it was. He ended up having two. It wouldn't do to tell Mycroft about these.

After an appropriate amount of small talk, she inquired about his search for the Watsons.

He smiled his shy smile and said, "Well, I am not sure how to approach them. I'm not very comfortable going up to a stranger's home and knocking on the door."

"But you're family, no matter how distant. Around here that's good enough. If you really want to chat with someone who knows the family well and who can show you around, I suggest you go down to the harbour tomorrow where the sailboats are berthed. That's where Greg keeps his boat. "

"Greg?"

"Yes, Greg Lestrade. Now there's a tale, but I really shouldn't blather on about it."

He schooled his face with one of polite inquiry, knowing she would fall for the lure and would want to share something salacious.

"Oh, well I guess it wouldn't hurt. See Jack Watson was married a few times. It seems all of the folks from over that way have more than one wife. Now vicious gossip says they aren't exactly divorced when they marry the next but that's illegal so must just be the rumour, folks being nasty. Anyway, Greg is Jack Watson's son from his first marriage. Nasty bit of divorce when he met Ruth Campbell. He fell for her hard and left his first with two kids. Greg was pretty beaten up about it, so mad he took his mother's maiden name. There are more rumours that he may have made up with his dad, and they are back on speaking terms, but I wouldn't know. He'd be worth asking for an introduction. Or at least give you a better idea of how the family is all connected to yours."

"You said his father's name is Jack?"

"Yes, Jack, short for John, John senior. He has two grown children from Ruth, John and Harriet. From what I hear, John's been gone for a while now, off overseas. He'd had a falling out with his dad years ago, and he left. They say it broke his mother's heart, and she died of it, but that's just silliness. Seems as if Jack Watson might be a hard man to please and certainly his children have born the brunt of an uncertain temper."

Sherlock thanked Mrs. Tompkins and returned to his room, carrying yet another jam laden scone. She had filled him not just with home baking but something worth knowing. Perhaps if this Greg Lestrade were truly upset with his father and his half-brother, perhaps he could be persuaded to give Sherlock a hand or at least look the other way.

Shutting and locking the door, he looked at the large bed. It was surprisingly inviting, so he lay down and propped the pillows up behind him. Just as he was making himself comfortable, his phone buzzed with a text alert. It was Mycroft.

_Have you found the Assets?_

_Of course. It's why you sent me to this godforsaken country. There are trees and rocks, Mycroft. SH_

_I'm sure you will survive being one with the outdoors. You need to acquire the Assets ASAP. I am tired of deflecting questions._

_Why do you insist on calling them 'Assets'? This isn't one of those spy novels of which your assistant is overly fond. SH_

_You have three more days. If you do not have them in hand by then, I will relieve you of this and send someone else. _

Sherlock scowled at the phone. He knew exactly whom Mycroft would send, and he was not pleased. It would be badly handled, and John Watson would most likely be eliminated. This would not do.

_Piss off, brother. I know exactly what I am doing. You gave me a week. Let me do my job. SH_

He shut off the phone and tossed it onto the bed beside him.

Angry at his brother's impatience and lack of faith, (_when had he ever failed him?_), Sherlock could read between the lines. There must be some power play going on in the upper echelon, and Mycroft needed results. If he would wait and let Sherlock handle it, he could give him the whole Watson tribe, all for the Agency, wrapped up and delivered for recruitment and conditioning.

Suddenly tired, due, no doubt, to the amount of fresh ocean air, Sherlock curled up and fell asleep. Usually, while he slept, he catalogued his mind palace or sifted through intelligence looking for clues. This time, he dreamt true dreams. It didn't happen often, but sometimes when he slept, he would have a dream that spoke to him of different possibilities, Sometimes they came true. He was often bothered by these dreams. He would never tell anyone about them nor would he admit that they frightened him a little.

He was standing on the rocky shore of the Basin. There was a girl; he supposed it was Molly Watson. She was sitting on a large rock, out in the Basin, waving at him. "Come in Sherlock. Come in and swim. The water is fun." He walked closer. A whole pod of seals was cavorting in the water. One, a male, smaller than the rest, swam up to him on the shore. It leaned up on its front flippers and looked at him, sorrowful and knowing. Its eyes were large and dark. At first he thought they were brown, like a true seal, but they were of a blue so deep they appeared brown from a distance. He reached an unsteady hand out to the seal. At first he wondered at the trembling, thinking he was afraid. That was ridiculous, he was never afraid. Perhaps he was concerned that touching the seal would destroy it the way he had destroyed so many people. But he didn't think so. Something had changed inside of him. He wasn't the same, yet he couldn't tell what was different. His hand reached out of its violation, and he touched the seal. Nothing but love and warmth and trust from the creature. It was not afraid of him although he knew; he knew it should be, for this was John Watson.

With a gasp he sat up in bed, jerked out of his sleep by the realization of what he had felt and it left him unsettled. There was something the matter with his face; it was wet. He touched it and looked down at his fingertips; he had been crying in his sleep, but not fear or sadness or even longing although there were hints of all of those. Feelings he never recognized inside himself except when he stole them from others.

But it was the last emotion, the one that had set him to trembling, the one that had pulled him awake. One he had barely known inside himself yet could just see how much he had missed it.

He had felt joy.

oOo

After breakfast, Greg had come by with an invitation to John and Molly, asking if they wanted to go for a sail. John, who hadn't been sailing in forever, immediately jumped at the chance. Molly, who had not had a good night's sleep and was feeling very grumbly, was inching toward one of her rare whiny spells.

Greg and John had not had a lot of time together growing up. Only about ten years apart there was a lot of hard feelings and confusion about their relationship. Normally the children of the other wives were fairly close, not brother and sister, not quite the same, they were sibs, but still part of the same family. They would swim and fish together as seals and barbeque and sail as humans. John hadn't thought about how much he might miss not having that sort of relationship with an older male sib, but he was looking forward to reconnecting with Greg. Besides, with Jack's acknowledgement that Greg was his heir, being the eldest, it would be a good idea to mend fences and spend time together.

John checked the rope around the cleat hitch on the dock, just to make sure all was in order for when they were ready to go. Greg ran a tight ship, and the boat was a damn sight better looking than his truck. Not having sailed for a while, he was rather glad Greg was going with them. Stupid to go alone on the unpredictable ocean even if you were a bloody selkie.

Molly was jumping up and down with excitement, her earlier annoyance at John's insistence that she wear a life vest, vanished as quickly as it had come. Children's moods could be like the ocean; calm and steady one moment and hurricane-force the next.

Upon arriving at the boat and discovering she would be forced into a life vest, she'd almost wailed, "But Daddy, I can swim, and I'm a seal and it's stupid and I don't like it. It's scratching the back of my neck, and it's hot. Please, Daddy?"

John had leaned down, hands on his knees as he addressed his sulky daughter.

"Molly, if you want to go sailing with Uncle Greg and me, you are going to wear a life vest. Even we wear them."

"But Daddy…"

"That is the final word on the matter. Wear it and come with us or stay home with Auntie Harry."

The Watson crease, famous indicator of all things stubborn, fell between her eyes.

John would explain later, that yes she could turn into a seal and yes she could swim, but only a bit. She was new to it. Even real seals pups didn't swim far out when first learning. He would also tell her that just because they were seals in the water didn't mean it wasn't a good idea to take precautions. If something were to happen and the boat were to capsize or the boom to smack one of them in the back of the head, throwing them overboard, turning into a seal wouldn't help anyone if they went in unconscious. Even seals could drown.

He finished readying the boat as Greg checked the motor one last time and then he turned to help Molly. She wasn't there. She was at the end of the dock next to the parking lot. What he saw made his heart stop.

A strange man, dark curly hair tossed around by the wind, was crouched down, talking to Molly. She leaned in close to him and nodded her head. Like the ocean, John's emotions churned and boiled, a mixture washed over him, from anger at Molly for totally ignoring the repeated reminder not to talk to strangers, to fear and horror, to the sinking realisation that they had indeed been found. John knew, knew with the simplicity of small tells he had been trained to observe that this man worked for the Agency. He told his reactions to shut up and let the calm that always came with an assignment flow over him. He could always push this man if he had too, but he would have to go carefully. Molly was in grave danger.

He started to walk slowly toward the two of them. Molly's voice could just be heard, but not what she was saying. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction, and it carried her words away. The man answered her with a deep smoky baritone. He was smiling at her, but even John could sense something was off. The man knew he was there and that he was moving closer. _Fuck stealth_, he thought and yelled Molly's name. What happened next though caused his heart to lurch even more as he watched his daughter reach out and touch the face of the man. Part of his mind, the part was not screaming in panic, was interested to note that he tried to jerk his head out of her reach, but wasn't able to move it far enough away as her hand touched his bare skin.

oOo

Molly had been angry with her father, not the towering rage her mother would have worked herself into, or even the sometimes shouting Daddy would do, but a typical five-year-old temper tantrum. It had passed fairly quickly. Her father would not back down and if she didn't comply she would have to stay with Auntie Harry. So she was back to being excited about going on Uncle Greg's boat. She'd never been sailing, and it looked like fun. Maybe it wasn't as much fun as turning into a seal, but still. She was jumping up and down now and shouting Hooray with every other breath.

There was still a feeling of 'not fair' but it had mostly gone away. She wanted to spend more time as a seal. Daddy had promised, and they hadn't tried it today. Maybe they would get to do it when they were out on the water.

The idea of turning into a seal had at first confused her, maybe even frightened her a little but inside she had known what Daddy had said was right. She could feel the ocean calling to her. Now that she knew what it was, she saw that the voice of ocean and the selkie had always been there. There was also the other voice in her head now, the one that came from Mummy. A cloud of sorrow passed by as she thought about her. Mummy wasn't there to ask if this voice was okay. The other voice, the shadowy one, scared her a little bit, but it also intrigued her. If the seal was good and fun might not the other one be also? There was a little thrill inside her when she listened to it. She wouldn't tell anyone about that one just yet. It was hers.

She knew she had to stay put while Daddy and Uncle Greg readied the boat. But it didn't stop her from looking around and jumping and shouting. In between 'Hoorays', she heard the sound of a car pulling up in the space beside Uncle Greg's 'rust bucket'. A tall man got out. He had dark hair, and he was wearing sunglasses and driving gloves. What she really noticed almost right away is that he had no glow. She felt a crushing fear climb inside and she was just about to scream for her father when she saw something else. He was dark and scary and was probably one of the bad men her father had warned her about but there was something she could just see, hovering below where the glow should be, and it intrigued her. She waited, waited for him to come closer.

"Hello. You must be Molly."

She nodded. He had a deep voice; it was pleasant, but it was also full of shadows. It was almost mesmerizing.

He crouched in front of her. Even in a crouch he was still taller than her. She tilted her head to one side and looked up at him. She could almost see what had caught her attention.

"My name is Sherlock. I've been looking for you, you and your Dad. We want you to come home."

"Daddy said you killed Mummy."

He laughed, and she could tell it was off, that it wasn't a true laugh. He was doing it to make her like him. She didn't like him, but she was so fascinated by what she could almost see. She stayed and listened.

"Oh that wasn't us, that was some other bad men. If you come back with me, you could help us find them. You're such a clever girl. I bet you'd find them right away. Don't you want to go back to England? Don't you miss your friends?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I like it here."

A flash of something crossed his face, and she knew she really should go to her father.

"Now Molly, why don't you come with me?"

She rolled her eyes. Did he really think that would work? She wasn't a baby.

"No, thank you. I'm not supposed to talk to you."

She started to turn and was just about to run back to her father when it clicked. She knew what to do. She could fix this. He was missing his glow, but she knew deep, deep inside that she just had to reach out and touch him, and she could give it back. She had tried once with Mummy, but she hadn't really known what to do, but now she did. It was really very easy. With a steady hand and the confidence of her age, she reached out and laid a hand on his cheek.

So many things happened at the same time, she couldn't tell what they all were. Only later, lying in bed that night was she able to sort through them.

First she heard her father yell her name. The sound almost made her hesitate, but there was still a part of her that was angry with him. She did it somewhat to say no. The second thing that happened was the man tried to lean away from her, and she saw real emotion in his eyes, not fake. He was scared of her touching him. Not of her, though, it was very clear, but for her. He was afraid something bad would happen to her if she touched him. Her hand touched his cheek, and she felt the slight, rough stubble like when Daddy tickled her with his face. His skin was cool to the touch from being outdoors.

The next thing she felt a slight pain like a spark or a shock of electricity. It went away and something told her it had been a near miss as if her body knew that she could have died. She was inundated with images, too many to distinguish them all, strange faces and emotions filled her. It was very painful at first until she shoved them away. The longer she touched him, though, the less intense the feeling and the further back the images went until she was looking through his eyes from long ago. He must have been her age. Here was a boy with whom she would have been a friend. She could tell he liked to climb trees and play in ponds and roam through the woods.

There was a dog there too, big and reddish and hairy. The dog came bounding up to her/him and licked her/his face. She heard the name in her head, _Redbeard_ and both of them said it at the same time "Redbeard", but neither knew they had said it out loud. Such love for this dog, she could feel it buried there and how much the dog loved him, unconditionally and beautiful. She loved the dog, too.

Outside of the memories the man had closed his eyes. He was crying. The cause was the dog. The dog was dead. There was an older boy, she saw, with cruel eyes bending over her/him. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You mustn't become attached to your pets. They break so easily." Redbeard had died, because of something the older boy had done. Both of them yelled, "No!" Despair, complete despair as strong as when she'd lost Mummy. Tears streaked down her cheek. Her body was shaking with the pain of such loss. Someone or something had taken away his joy. He was so sad inside, but he didn't know it. And she felt it. She felt him at that moment that that was the beginning; when he had started to lose his glow.

All of this took place in the space of a moment, between one heartbeat and the next, like turning into the seal. She spoke to him and said, "_I can fix it._"

He was afraid, but there was something underneath, something inside that pleaded for her to "_Yes, fix me. I don't want this anymore._"

She could give it back to him. She pushed like she knew Daddy did with anger, like she did when she made people see what she wanted them to see.

She filled him with joy.

oOo

Sherlock leaned back. If she touched him, he would take what was hers, and she would die. He couldn't let that happen. When he first started talking to her, he thought she was just another child, just an annoying brat, but then he could see there was something else. That was what they wanted, at the Agency, and he had to bring her back, alive. There was nowhere for him to go and she touched him, laying her warm hand on his cheek.

At first there was confusion and an inundation of emotions and images, like when he touched someone, but it was different. He wasn't seeing her emotions and memories, he saw his own. From just recently with Molly Hooper's death to when he first realized his power, what he could do and all the people he had taken in between. But it didn't stop there, it rushed past to his dark time before Mycroft had shown him how to hone his skills when there was nothing but living on the streets and the drugs to before that all the way back to when he was a boy. And then there was a dog, big and reddish and hairy came bounding up to him/her and licked his/her face. He heard the name in his head, _Redbeard_, and he didn't know it, but both of them said it at the same time, and neither knew they had said it out loud. Such love for this dog, he could feel how much the dog loved him, unconditionally and beautiful.

He was shaking, and there were tears on his face because he knew what had happened to Redbeard and as he thought it there was Mycroft standing over him/her. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You mustn't become attached to your pets. They break so easily." Redbeard had died. Mycroft had done it to break him, to unleash the monster he had become. He yelled, "No!" but it was too late. He lost it. Lost the joy with which he'd been born.

All of this took place in the space of a moment, between one heartbeat and the next, He heard her speak to him, and she said, "_I can fix it_."

He was afraid, but there was something underneath, something inside that pleaded for her to "_Yes, fix me. I don't want this anymore_." He was so tired. So very tired of what he was capable of doing.

So she did.


	7. Through a Window in the Dark

**A/N: Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady once again for looking this over:)**

**I do not own the original characters, but the ideas are mine. Chapter titles come from the song Selkie by Tori Amos**

7\. Through a Window in the Dark

Watching Mary die in front of him killed John in ways that cannot be prepared for and were completely unimaginable until after it happened. Seeing Molly collapse after touching the man's face was a worse kind of death, so much so he wondered if he'd recover. Rushing to her side, he checked and found she was still breathing. Her face was scrunched up as if she was in pain and she muttered to herself, something about a beard. He glanced over at the man, but he was curled up in the fetal position and appeared unconscious. He scowled. Poor agent he was, he should have checked the downed man first to see if he were incapacitated. Stupid, stupid move.

Just then he felt Greg's hand on his shoulder. "What the hell?"

John looked up at him, grim-faced. "They've found us."

Greg glanced over at the still form on the dock. "What should we do with him?"

John glowered, "I'd say kick him over the side but there are too many people milling about, and I don't want to pollute the Bay. Let's get him on the boat and head back to the Basin. We can figure out what to do there. Check him for a weapon, would you?"

Greg looked troubled but nodded. John was right about the number of people about. Even as Greg reached down to haul the man to his feet and drag him to the boat, a neighbour a few slips over called out. "Everything all right?"

"Oh yes, fine thanks. He tied one on last night. Just going to help him onto the boat to rest it off. He really shouldn't have been driving." He bent down to John. "Let's get out of here, before more people come over and start yammering at us. He wasn't carrying anything, just ID, keys and a phone." He patted his pockets to show that's where they were being kept for now

John nodded, scooped Molly up and held her tight. As he carried her to the boat, leaving Greg to deal with the agent, she woke briefly. She smiled. "I fixed him, Daddy." She looked around and frowned as she watched Greg lift the man onto his feet. "You're not going to hurt him, are you? Don't Daddy. I fixed him," then her eyes rolled back, and she was unconscious once more. John's heart couldn't take any more of this. If anything happened to her, he'd drag the unconscious agent out to the ocean and dump him there, no matter what Molly wanted.

He laid her in the cabin on one of the bunks. He sat down beside her and brushed her hair off of her face. She frowned in her sleep and he thought he heard her say, "Don't hurt him, Daddy," but it was faint, and he wasn't sure.

By now Greg had dragged the agent on board the boat. Although he was making it look like he was helping the man, he wasn't very careful with him. As he brought him below deck, John could have sworn he deliberately let his head hit the top of the hatch. Greg moved him up to the forward cabin and shut him in. He rummaged around in a bin and came up with some chain and a padlock, which he used to secure the door.

"Won't hold him if he's in a mood, but from the looks of him, he ain't waking any time soon. What the hell happened to them, John? She all right?"

John shook his head. "I don't know Greg. Do you need me to help get her under way?"

"Nah, I sail alone all the time. If she wakes, bring her above. Fresh air'll do her good." He left to finish making the boat ready.

The wind was fresh, and the boat ran ahead of it with a good will. It wasn't long until they were heading into the Basin. The water was too shallow at the dock for a boat of this size. It took a bit of time to get a good spot to anchor once there because the wind turned fickle and they had to tack for a while. Once Greg had dropped anchor, he shucked off his clothes and dove into the water letting the selkie swim to the dock. Harry was once again sunbathing and reading, so Greg didn't have to embarrass himself by changing back and running across the road to the house naked. Shading his eyes, John watched as Harry leant over the edge and spoke to Greg. Then she stood and ran up to the house. Greg ducked under the water again and shortly after, he surface at the side of the boat as a large grey seal. After returning to human form, John helped him clamber over the side.

"She's gone to tell Jack and make preparations. She suggested staying on the boat until dark and bringing him up to the house then. Said we could keep him in that storage room you have in the basement. It locks, and it's all cement except for the door. At least until we figure out what to do with him. I'm all for taking the boat out and tossing him."

John shook his head slowly. "Not yet. I need to talk to him first. I need to know who he is and how the hell he found us. Molly said she 'fixed him'. I want to know what the hell that means."

There was a sound from below deck and John swung down into the cabin, closely followed by Greg.

Sitting up in the bunk, like nothing had happened, as if she hadn't given her father a near heart attack, Molly smiled brightly and said. "Hi Daddy, Hi Uncle Greg." Then she frowned. "Did I miss the sailing?"

"Molly? Sweetheart, are you okay?" John scooped her up again and didn't wait for her response. He carried her above deck and held her on his lap. The breeze ruffled through her hair, and her colour started to come back.

A puzzled expression crossed her face. "Can we go sailing, now?"

John sighed. "No sweetie. We have to wait on the boat until later so we can take that man up to the house. Molly, can you tell me what happened, back at the dock? When you touched him?"

"I fixed him."

"Yes, you said that before. What do you mean?"

Looking at John seriously for a moment, she said, "He was hurt on the inside. So I fixed it. Made him feel better. If we can't go sailing, can I practice being a seal?"

John looked at Greg, who was grinning.

"Typical kid," Greg muttered to John. "Look why don't you take her in the water and I'll keep an eye on him. He isn't likely to get out, and there's always stuff to do on the boat."

John nodded and helped Molly out of her life jacket and clothes. He stripped quickly, not caring this time whether any of the on-shore neighbours was looking. Let them get an eyeful, he thought.

The afternoon was spent playing with Molly in the water. He stayed human for part of the time but would change now and then to guide her to the Basin floor to scare the fish or to practice holding her breath. When they came back on board, Greg had put together a simple, but plentiful late lunch. All three had worked up an appetite, and they were quiet for a time.

After lunch, Greg checked on their prisoner. "Still out like a light."

Molly was throwing her crusts over the side where a handful of seagulls were squabbling over them. She laughed every time the bread was grabbed out of the sky. Hearing Greg, she said. "There was a lot to fix. He is probably tired, like when I'm sick, and you make me go to bed." She scrunched her face up at the thought of having to stay in bed when sick.

"You keep saying that, sweetie. Can you tell me what's broken?" John asked as he tried a different approach.

Molly thought hard for a moment. "He was a very bad man. He didn't like anything. He didn't have any friends. He used to hurt people, and he'd take..." She thought long. "He used to take their happiness away? I don't know." She looked cross for a minute and then brightened. "But now he won't. He will feel so much better. He can make himself happy, and he can find friends." She paused. "They killed his dog," she said in disgust.

"Do you know how you did it, sweetie?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me?"

Molly looked at John and then shrugged. "Can we go back in the water, now?"

Greg laughed, and John hugged Molly. They went in the water for another hour. Afterward Molly, well tired out from sun and wind and water, fell asleep on the deck, in the shade of the mast, while John kept an eye on her.

Greg, after his turn at swimming, said to John, "What do you make of all that?" He nodded his head in Molly's direction.

John thought for a long time. "Darned if I know. I think he came out of Baskerville, same as Mary and me. He must've either been experimented on like Mary, or maybe he had a natural inclination to 'hurt' people. Not sure exactly what it is she meant by all that taking away people's happiness."

"You never run into him before?"

John shook his head. "No. They kept us pretty isolated from one another. I knew a few. Some stranger than us, but him? Not familiar at all. I think I would have recognized him if I had. He does remind me of someone. He's…striking."

Eyebrows raised, Greg stared at John. John stared back. "What? He is."

"I'll grant you that he is unforgettable, all long legs and alien features. I guess I never figured you for the type."

"Problem?"

"Nope."

"Good."

Greg went to lie down in the cabin and nap while John remained beside Molly, one hand on her to keep her from rolling off the deck and the other worried at his lip.

"Why the hell did I say that?" he asked no one in particular.

oOo

Later in the cool of the evening, the sky rapidly darkening, the two men lowered the still unconscious form into the rowboat John brought back from the dock. Molly climbed in after and crept up to where the man was laid out.

"It will be okay," John heard her whisper. "Daddy will take care of you."

Oh sure, he thought, I'll take care of him all right.

Arriving at the dock, they found Harry and Jack waiting with an old army issue stretcher. John remembered Jack's predilection for never throwing anything away. Watching the road for signs of traffic, Greg and John brought the stretcher up to the house followed by the rest.

Entering in the basement door, they made their way to the storage room and saw it had been made ready for the prisoner. Laid out on the cot, under the harsh basement lights, John thought there was something vulnerable and young in the still form. He was distantly aware of the sound of the ocean; the rush and pulse of the answering call in his veins, a thrum and pull of tides rising with the moon. It was odd to hear it down in the basement through concrete walls.

Shaking his head, he covered the man up with a blanket and left to speak with the others, to discuss their options.

oOo

Surfacing from wherever it is one goes when comatose, Sherlock had the distinct sensation of something cool against his cheek and a coarse blanket under his fingers. His chest and legs felt comfortable enough, but the air surrounding him was chilled. Even though his face and hands were cold, on the inside he was warm. Not just under the blanket, deep inside, under his skin, in his centre. Eyes closed, his world at the moment was dark, and he was sure he was alone, but in the deepest part of his being, he was sunshine and meadows and summer breeze. It was an odd sensation. He couldn't remember the last time he felt internally warm. It was long before this, whatever this was. It was a tangible sensation of being held tight and comforted. Something shifted inside, and there was a glimpse of red fur and a cool nose; that, right there, that was the last time.

He became aware of a vague humming noise, but not like an insect, more like a badly tuned radio. He was sure the room was spinning, but he was motionless, he couldn't move. Therefore, it had to be the room.

Eventually, he was able to pick out words here and there in all the humming, "…hasn't moved…him in…safe…Molly's is not to…still unconscious…fixed she…the fuck she do?"

There were at least three speakers, maybe four, one female, none of whom he recognized, but if he had to guess, one must be John Watson.

Wondering if they were talking about him or discussing something else, he began to drift back to sleep.

oOo

The ID, the agent, carried said Christopher St. James. John knew that wasn't his real name. There were keys to the rental vehicle, which Harry had gone to fetch. They'd put it in Mike's garage for now. He was also carrying a key to a B &amp; B located in Mahone Bay. Greg knew the proprietors and had called to say 'Christopher' was visiting with them. Mrs. Tompkins was very happy to hear 'Mr. St. James' had found his relatives and wished them a happy reunion.

"Must be his cover story," John said.

There was also a cell phone. John wanted to get rid of it in case it had tracking on it, but not quite yet. He told them not to bother trying to access the information inside.

"There will be a password, probably several, one to get in, one to destroy it and one to contact his handler. So don't try."

They discussed what to do with Christopher.

"Might as well call him that for now. If he wakes up, he won't tell us his real name."

"What are we going to do with him?" asked Jack.

"Lord if I know. If this were an assignment, I'd either take him back to the agency, or I'd kill him." There were uncomfortable looks traded between the other three. "I know it's hard for you to realize, but that was my job. Mary and I, we were assassins, trackers. I mostly did the tracking, but you have to know, I've killed people."

Jack spoke up. "I may not agree with your choices, boy, but we'll deal with this as family. You tell us what to do, and we'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes to protect my granddaughter."

John nodded wearily. "Let's wait until I can chat with our guest." He turned to the storeroom where the door was still open. "I'll stay with him for now. I'm better equipped to deal with this than you are." Grabbing a card table chair, he went into the storeroom, shut the door behind him and waited.

He didn't have long. Almost as if the agent sensed his presence, he stirred, and John watched as he lifted a shaky hand to his dark curls. A long face, mobile and intelligent looking, at first it seemed odd and his features unusual. The longer John watched, the more interesting and attractive it appeared. He shook his head. Now was not the time.

And then he saw his eyes, luminescent, multihued, fierce, appraising him. John felt as if he had been in the dark and now searchlights illuminated every corner of his soul He nearly gasped aloud but held a tight rein on his feelings. It was a piercing and thoughtful gaze that swept over him.

A deep, rumbly voice, a bit creaky, probably from being dehydrated, spoke, "John Watson. I recognize you from your photograph."

John said nothing.

"I assume you know why I am here?"

"Yes."

"I've come to bring you and your daughter back with me."

"I know."

"You, preferably alive, but not necessarily. Your daughter, definitely." John clenched his jaw. "I'm surprised you didn't toss me into the ocean," St. James said as he picked at the weave on the blanket. "It's what I would have done. Well to me, as tossing you in the ocean would have been futile."

John pursed his lips and nodded as he leaned back in his chair. "Yes, well, it was a thought. But it came down to one thing."

"And what was that? If I may inquire."

"Molly asked me not to."

"Do you always do what Molly wants?"

John snorted. "No."

"So why did you this time?"

There was a very long pause. John shifted uncomfortably and pursed his lips, "I'm not entirely sure." He stood abruptly and turned to leave. "I'll be back in a while with water and something for you to eat." He stopped at the door. "We'll let you know what we intend to do with you."

John shut the door behind him as he left the little storage room, cleaned out of anything St. James could have use to facilitate an escape. He stopped and rubbed a weary hand on his brow. He left the room a lot sooner than he had planned before he got any answers. There was no choice but to leave because something was overwhelming him and niggled at the back of his mind.

He had not been totally honest with St. James. He hadn't been totally honest with himself. Molly wasn't the only reason he hadn't simply tossed him into the ocean.

"Damn."

oOo

Sherlock leaned back against the cold wall. He knew one thing. John Watson wasn't being totally honest with him. He did have a reason for not throwing him off the dock, and it wasn't just because it would have been noticed if a body showed up in the Bay. A deep heavy sigh filled his lungs, and he blew it out. It was so different from anything he had ever experienced, and there was a little thrill running up his spine. He wanted to be around to see what would happen. In spite of the fear, it was all very exciting and new.

Very tired from whatever it was that Molly Watson had done to him, he closed his eyes ready to explore the unfamiliar and surprisingly welcome sensations of panic, doubt and anxiety. There was something else there too. Something different. When he had first laid eyes on John Watson's photograph and memories of him in Molly Hooper's mind, he had wanted him, wanted him in a way he wanted all things, to use and play with, to break him and taste his emotions.

Now it was different. Now he wanted him the way he wanted air or light or to hold onto these new feelings. It was all very confusing and more than overwhelming.

He lay back down on the cot and drew the blanket up over his shoulders. Normally at this point he would go into his mind palace and sort through thoughts like this, order them and lay disturbing ones to rest. Instead he went to sleep, a deep, natural, healthy sleep.


	8. He Knows the Gift She Gives

**A/N: Okay here is the next chapter. I cannot promise I will have chapter 9 up anytime soon, but I am hoping to work on it next weekend. I will be busy for the next few weeks as work gears up again:P**

**Thank you to mattsloved1 for once again putting up with my mistakes:D**

8\. He Knows the Gift She Gives

Bored.

Totally, completely and maddeningly bored. He had been left alone for a while now. He'd only had one other visitor after John Watson left in what he assumed was the night before; a tall man with silvering hair had brought him breakfast a little while ago and of all things, embarrassingly, an actual old-fashioned chamber pot. The man at least had the courtesy to leave the room whilst Sherlock attended to his personal needs.

There was not much to look at except the unrelenting grey of cement bricks. The only bright spot in the room was the blanket spread out on the cot. Standing beside the bed, he stretched cramped limbs, as he contemplated how long he'd been here. Not overly long. Twenty-four hours since he had seen the Watsons at the harbour, he believed. It was hard to say for sure as he had been unconscious for part of that time and his internal clock was askew.

Being bored with nothing to do made the desire to be pulled back into sleep stronger. It lingered at the edge of his mind. Sleep was irritating, and he had dozed long enough. He wanted to be doing something, needed to be away from his inner thoughts, which were far too personal at the moment.

As he mused about his state of ennui, he was suddenly distracted by a noise at the door. There was a strange clunking sound, almost as if someone was trying to turn the knob but didn't quite have the strength. There was a pause, some more noise and then with a rusty groan the lock clicked and the door sprang open.

Molly Watson entered, with a slow hesitancy, as if checking to see if he was alone. After a quick survey, she scrambled over to him. Without any fear, she climbed at the foot of the cot and sat cross-legged. He continued to stand as he regarded her.

"Hello," she said, not a bit shy. She stared at him with her dark blue eyes. The memory of her reaching out and touching his face hovered between them. Something in him almost shrank back at the thought of being touched again, but the majority of his feelings were of curiosity. This child had fundamentally changed him in ways he was still trying to discover.

"Hello," he said back. "Does your father know you are here? I would think he wouldn't be too pleased."

"No."

"Okay."

Shrugging, he joined her on the cot. She watched him, her face open and honest. There was sweetness there but not cloying. Rather it was of someone who felt that in spite of all the bad things in the world, the trust in the greater good and the belief in others were implicit. Her regard, a five-year-old judging him, was a heavy weight.

"You killed Molly."

"Yes, I did." No prevarication, no lying. Simple straight up facts. Besides he knew she knew so what was the point.

"Why? She was my friend."

"I'm sorry." He was. He hadn't been before. "It was all I knew how to do. It's how I get or rather got information. I needed to know where you were. She wouldn't have told me if I asked. It is not something I would do again." He bent his head down and fiddled with the blanket. He'd never felt so uncomfortable before. "I also needed to feel other people's emotions. I didn't have my own. I do now, thanks to you." He looked up and narrowed his eyes at her. "You have changed me. I couldn't do it again if I wanted to. Hurt someone that way, I mean."

"Daddy says it's not good enough to say sorry. You have to promise not to do it again. You have to say it like this. 'I am sorry I hurt you by killing your friend. I promise I won't do it again.'" She waited for a response.

A little bright glow of astonishment grew inside him.

"Well?" she asked, impatient with his delay.

He smothered a smile. It would not be appropriate to the solemnity of the moment.

"I am sorry, truly sorry, I hurt you, Molly Watson. I am very sorry I killed your friend. I promise I won't ever do anything like that again."

"Okay," she said. "I'm supposed to say, 'I accept your apology.'"

Sherlock waited. Molly continued to stare at him.

Right.

Well then.

After the thick, awkward silence, she crawled closer, invaded his space and threw her arms around him. Logically, he knew he couldn't hurt her with touch anymore, not that way, but he was still hesitant. She squeezed harder and almost of their volition, his arms went up and wrapped around her. Such a simple act, such emotional connection, such a moment of healing. He closed his eyes. This was peace.

It only lasted a moment as the door was flung open and banged against the wall. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and his arms dropped. Molly continued to hold on. John entered, face like thunder. For a small man, he was much larger when angered. He had a gun, and it was raised and levelled at Sherlock's head. There was no pity in his eyes, and his aim was sure and steady.

"Molly, come away from him right now." His voice was calm but with a note of steel underneath. She let go of Sherlock with one arm but held on with the other as she turned and faced John.

"No."

John blinked and his lips thinned. He wasn't used to being disobeyed by Molly, Sherlock observed.

"Molly, you will do as I say. Get down this minute and away from him. He already hurt you once, and he won't get a second chance."

Rolling her eyes in that way that obviously irritated John, she clambered down. She stood with her arms crossed in front of Sherlock and said, "No. He didn't hurt me. I hurt him."

John blinked again but said nothing. Molly sighed and then before she left she reached up and planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "If he shoots you, I won't speak to him for a long time."

She walked out but gave her father a good scowl as she passed.

John waited until she left and then said, "If you ever go anywhere near her again, I will shoot you."

Sherlock didn't speak. He knew there was no point telling John she had come to him.

John backed out of the room and slammed the door shut. Sherlock could hear the lock turn.

His breathing began to calm, and his heartbeat slowed the longer he continued to sit and stare at the closed door.

Interesting.

He'd never been scared before.

oOo

"You, young lady, are in so much trouble." John stood, arms crossed, trying to glare down his daughter. He was getting the impression it wasn't going to work.

She in turn ignored him and was playing with her porridge, either not hungry or too tired to eat. Although she had slept through the night, she had been restless and had called out for Mary a couple of times and once for Molly. There were dark circles under her eyes.

John hadn't slept at all. He had laid on the bed beside his daughter but every time he closed his eyes he heard the ocean, he saw eyes like the stars shining in the dark and heard a voice like deep water. His eyes would snap open, and he would shiver. Lack of sleep wasn't conducive to being cheerful and happy in the morning, and self-recrimination about whatever this was wasn't helpful either. When he discovered, Molly had snuck down to the basement and was chatting pleasantly with St. James, hugging him for Christ's sake, well it made him slightly unreasonable.

"Molly, do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I hear you. But Sherlock won't hurt anyone anymore."

"Sherlock?"

She just looked at him as if he were really, really stupid. Or a bug. He wasn't sure he liked it. He had to admit he was a bit slow this morning.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes. He used to hurt people. Now he doesn't. I fixed him." She sounded weary of repeating this phrase. "He likes me, and I like him and you aren't going to hurt him." She looked a little unsure for a moment. "You aren't going to hurt him, but he did do something really bad."

"Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? Are you sure?"

"Yes. That's his name."

"Shit."

"Daddy!"

"Sorry, but that is not a good piece of news. No wonder he looked familiar."

"Why Daddy?"

"He's brother to the man who runs the Agency. I've heard of him. Huh. Well, that makes sense, about the touching people. That's how he kills." At one time discussing trained agents in front of Molly would have been out of the question. He was too tired to wonder at this latest upheaval in his life.

"I told you that."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. Well hell, that complicates things a whole lot more."

"But you won't hurt him, will you?"

John sighed, the sound of a father put to his limits with an irritating child. "Molly, I can't promise I won't hurt him. My feelings about him and what happened to you are complicated. He was sent here to hurt us, and I won't let him do that. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, but he won't. He won't ever, ever hurt me. But Daddy, he killed Molly."

John knew deep down inside that Molly Hooper was the link to how they had been found and that the likelihood of her being alive was slim, but it was still a blow. He sat down abruptly. "Oh God."

Molly scooted off of her chair and mirroring her comfort of Holmes, she climbed onto her father's lap and flung her arms around him. He could feel her shoulders begin to shake as she let go of her grief. John's chest ached; ached for all the pain his daughter had gone through. He wasn't sure if he could take her being in pain anymore and he was very close to snapping. Holmes would make a convenient target.

Harry chose that moment to walk in on them. She stood cautiously in the doorway at first and then came over and hugged them. After a few minutes, she reached around for some Kleenex and wiped at Molly's eyes.

"Come on pet, you haven't slept much. Why don't we go into the garden? Uncle Greg's out there and he can keep an eye on you. There's a lovely hammock under the tree, and maybe he will read to you. What do you say?"

Molly nodded. Harry got her a glass of water, took her hand and led her to the garden. She was back in a few minutes. John hadn't moved.

"Dad wants to speak to you. He wants to know what we are going to do."

"Dammed if I know," John whispered.

"John?"

"Fuck Harry, it's so goddamned complicated."

"What? This? With what is happening to Molly and this man?" She looked confused. "He came after you and he wouldn't have hesitated to kill you and us and you know it. Why is that complicated?"

"Molly says he can't hurt people anymore, that whatever he did before he can't do. She insists she's changed him."

"You believe her?"

"I saw them down in the basement. He was hugging her. She was hugging him, and there was a look of pure happiness on his face, bliss and contentment, but like it was new like he didn't know what it was or what to do with it. I don't think he'd hurt her."

Harry sat down and looked at John, really looked at him. "What about the rest of us? He works for this agency of yours. You know he's come here for you and her. He is supposed to bring her back unharmed. That's what he told you last night."

"I know."

"John, what is it? What makes you so sure? I mean Molly, yeah, she's special and all, but she's five. What the hell does she know? What if he's fooling her?"

John turned his hands over and looked at them, saw the lines and calluses there, wondered about times he had had to kill people and knew that if he had been sent to bring someone back, dead or alive he would have. He had been too well trained and knew that he wouldn't have just given up on a quarry.

But he also knew Molly was special. He had seen something happen between her and Holmes. There had to be more to it than a ruse.

Then there was the thing he couldn't say, the idea that he couldn't bring himself to name yet, waiting patiently at the back of his mind. The rush of water and waves in his blood, stronger than any pull he'd ever felt was playing there, calling to him. The thing he couldn't speak of yet, that told him, Sherlock Holmes was more than just a man sent to kill him and take his daughter. A glimmer of possibilities tumbled through him, and his nervous system tingled with a brush of what could be. He shook his head. His wife of ten years was dead, the people he worked for were trying to kill him, his daughter had new and strange abilities that would put her in danger probably for the rest of her life and…

He was falling in love.

He sat up, "Right. Let's talk to Dad and see what we can do."

oOo

Jack Watson was not pleased. They were in the living room, which was a fairly large space but at the moment didn't look like it was capable of containing two angry Watsons.

He snarled, his shoulders were hunched, and he looked as if he would charge John, rush him, showing his dominance. "Are you insane? That monster was sent to kill you and her and us too, and you want to let him out of his cage? What happened to putting him in the ocean where he belongs?"

John had enough. His temper, never the best around his father, certainly frayed with everything going on, snapped. "Enough! First of all, we need him to contact his handler and let him know he is still alive. He needs to make the Agency think he is still pursuing us. That should give us the time to get away and hide someplace else." Jack looked like he was about to say something, but John held up his hand. "Do. Not. Interrupt. I'm not finished. No, I do not know for sure he will do that, but he has made a connection with Molly. I don't entirely trust him, but I am beginning to see there's more to this, and I do trust her. She has talents I can't imagine. Right now I am going downstairs to speak with him. I can ask him. I will also offer him the choice of being alive or dead."

"You can't know he won't use you and your feelings for Molly. He will lie to get you to do anything. You can't trust him, boy."

"Look, I would agree with you if I hadn't seen him hug Molly and she gave him a kiss."

Normally the expression on Jack's face would have made John laugh, stunned was not a good enough descriptor.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes. He is the brother of the man who runs the Agency, Mycroft Holmes. He is an unusual and gifted agent. Mycroft would not send him unless he were desperate to get us back. Sherlock Holmes would not come himself unless he were highly motivated. He has a singular talent. He just needs to touch someone for them to end up dead."

"All the more reason…"

"He touched Molly! Don't you get it? He touched her, he hugged her. She touched him. She's not dead, and she damn well should be! He can't turn off his ability. We all knew about him, and there wasn't one agent who wanted anything to do with him." He took a deep breath. "I am not foolish enough to entirely trust him. I will be keeping a close eye on him, but after Molly had touched him, he collapsed and went into some kind of coma. She says he's cured, and until I have proof otherwise I am going to believe her."

"But, John," Harry said, tentatively so as not to have his anger directed at her. "He could kill people just by touching them?"

"Yes and read them, too. Mary and I had heard rumours. No one talks much about the talents of others, but we'd heard. He could tell what people were thinking, feeling."

"He sounds like a monster, John! He's killed people you know and care for. He could kill us or hand us over to this Agency of yours."

"He was a monster. Can we be certain he still is?" No one said anything, not knowing how to refute that question.

"Right. I'm going downstairs. Someone, please get Greg and Molly. She needs to see this. If she has cured him and they do have a connection, maybe she can help get his cooperation. If he's lying to her somehow, then perhaps she can sense it or at the very least we can show her he's not what she thinks." What did it say about him that he was desperate enough to expose his daughter like this?

Rather than delve too deeply into that psychological quagmire, he turned abruptly and marched out of the room to the door to the basement.

He stood outside the door, gathering his courage. He knew what he had to do. He knew how it had to play out. He had used people before and got them to do what he wanted.

Right.

Shoulders squared, he pulled out his gun, unlocked the door and swung it open.

Holmes looked up from where he was sitting on the cot. He looked at John expectantly as John levelled the gun at him once more.

One look at Holmes and John's heart started to hammer. His fingers began to twitch. Throughout his entire body, there was a humming sound, beginning in his ears and flowing through his entire skin, as if he were attuning himself to a presence. A crescendo, the sound of crashing waves almost drowned the noise of his pulse. If he were to stand on the beach on a stormy day, the noise would not be louder. This is what drowning felt like.

He cleared his throat.

"Here's the deal. We will let you out of here, and you will contact your handler and let him or her know you are still looking for us. You will do whatever you need to do to make them think you haven't been in contact yet."

"If I don't?"

"I will kill you and hide your body so far under the ocean no one will ever find it."

"Of course."

"Of course what?"

"Of course I will help you. I have no interest in assisting my brother." There was such bitterness in the word 'brother' John could almost taste it.

"Why should I believe you?"

Holmes sat back. "But you already do. I can see it."

"What do you mean? I thought you had to touch people to read them."

"You've heard of me." His eyes lit up, almost excited. "Well yes. I use to, but Molly seems to have changed that. I learned how to observe people and learn their secrets, for those occasions when touching someone would be a bit not good, seeing as they usually ended up dead."

"Usually?"

"Not always."

"Huh. Well, that complicates things." John hoped to hell his thudding heart wasn't that easy for Holmes to detect.

"How so?"

"You didn't kill Molly, but she also wasn't hurt. You said you don't always kill people by touching them, so how do I know you can't hurt or kill one of us?"

"Oh, believe me, you'd know. Even if I don't kill someone they are never the same after. She would not be the same."

"And you expect me just to believe you?"

An amused smirk and Sherlock held out his arm. "Touch me."

"I'd rather not." He didn't want to say why he'd rather not. It certainly wouldn't be the reason Holmes would think.

"Oh, I see. You're afraid. Hmmm, well if you don't entirely, believe me, what will you do?"

"I guess I have to trust you. Will you do this for us?" It went against every grain of common sense and training, but he had to ask.

"Yes." Holmes stood up and stretched, his movements sure and lithe. His white shirt rode up a little showing a glimpse of pale skin. That was not helping John's ridiculous infatuation at all.

Holmes walked over to John and leaned into him a little, a seemingly stupid move when a gun was pointed at someone. Holmes did not appear scared. He whispered in John's ear, in a frighteningly intimate fashion, "You do in fact already believe me. So let's cut the charade, shall we?" And he smirked again.

John just glared and ushered Holmes out ahead of him.

oOo

Mycroft Homes was not a man to worry about agents or details of things. He knew whatever he asked for would be accomplished. Sending Sherlock to retrieve the Watsons was by far the most expedient and sensible choice, if indeed the word sensible could be used regarding Sherlock.

He was, however, beginning to be perhaps a bit disturbed. He had not heard from Sherlock since he had texted him at the Bed and Breakfast almost two days ago. He knew John Watson was a formidable agent, but he was so confident in his brother's abilities there should be no need for worry. Sherlock would prevail. He always had. Still, sometimes accidents happened or the unexpected.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he should send another agent, his private line rang.

"Interesting timing," he said to the empty room.

"Brother, dear," came the familiar voice on the other end. "I am sure you were wondering what became of me."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was beginning to be somewhat concerned."

"How touching. I am calling to inform you the Watsons have left the area. I am off to pursue them and will require you to arrange transportation."

"Indeed. Slipped your fingers did they?"

"Yes. Most annoying."

"All right, Sherlock. Where do you need to go?"

"Ontario. Toronto to be precise and then I hope to pick up the trail there."

"I'll have Anthea make arrangements. I will call you back shortly with the details."

"Good." The line was terminated. Mycroft put down the receiver and stared at the phone. Sometimes even he could be surprised it seems and this time it was the unexpected.

A shame it hadn't been an accident.


	9. Been Waiting on the Love of My Life

**A/N: I am so sorry this has been two and a half months since I updated – I couldn't get my mind back to it and then yesterday it was as if the floodgates opened &amp; we have over 7000 words:P – actually it was closer to 9000 but I cut a lot:D There will be one more chapter for Part 1 and then I will take a wee break to figure out how I am going to get tem out of the mess I am about to send them into (more angst – yay) and there will be Part 2 but it will be in the same story:) Clear as mud.**

**Thanks mattsloved1 for giving it a quick glance so you guys don't have to wait for chapter 9:D**

**Titles and John's pledge come from and are inspired by the song **_**Selkie**_** by **_**Tori Amos**_

9\. Been Waiting on the Love of My Life

"He knows I am attempting to deceive him."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Hmmm. Difficult to explain but he knows. I know he knows. You won't have much time."

"Well, shit."

"Succinct."

They were standing on the deck. Sherlock had felt it would sound more authentic to Mycroft if he were outside, but all John could think was that the sun on his hair brought out hidden glimmers of Auburn. The wind was playing with his curls, and John wanted to reach up and run his hand through them. Sherlock was looking at him with a worried expression. John turned his head and looked out over the ocean, not sure if it was to hide from him what was going on in his head. The blue water in the Basin sparkled with traces of green and twinkled at him the same way Sherlock's eyes did. He cleared his throat and turned back.

"How much time do you think we have?"

It was Sherlock's turn to stare out over the water. John tried very hard not to drink in the profile of the man, but he couldn't have stop if he'd wanted.

"We will have less than 24 hours. I suspect Mycroft has agents in Canada but whether or not he mistrusted me enough to place them close at hand is another story. I've never given him cause to shadow me in the past so I doubt they will be near. Until today, I would have said he trusted me above all others. That will have changed."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. In fact it makes me feel rather," he paused and moved his mouth as if he were trying out different, unfamiliar words, "encouraged."

"Encouraged?"

"Yes, because now he doesn't know what to expect from me. That may give us the element of surprise and perhaps buy us some time."

"Us?" John didn't realize his voice had softened, but Sherlock heard it.

He smiled, and it changed his face from looking almost as if his features didn't fit, to beautiful. He glowed in the sun, and John clenched his fists so he wouldn't touch what didn't belong to him.

"I have promised you I would not hurt Molly. I will never hurt Molly. It would extend to ensuring no others hurt her, either. I will do my best to help you escape my brother and his plans."

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Can you…do you know what they want with Molly?"

"You won't like it."

"I don't already. Tell me."

"He was very interested in her DNA. The combination of your DNA and Mary's made her unique. He believes she would make a formidable weapon. If he could train her from a young age and make her his, he could use her in many capacities. He could also potentially use her as a bodyguard." He turned even paler as he said this. John had a flash of insight.

"Is that what he did with you?"

Sherlock blinked, a shudder went through his frame, and he nodded, clipped and short. "Yes."

"I won't let him touch her."

"Nor will I."

"All right. We need to gather the Kin, and we need to get out of here."

"John, he will find you. He will find you wherever you go."

"No. He won't. He does not control the sea." John turned to go, and Sherlock reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

"He will still find you."

John pursed his lips. "Maybe, but it's our best place to regroup and come up with a plan. You can't come where we are going." He said it, small and quiet and surely Sherlock heard the regret in his voice. Some badass tough guy he turned out to be.

"I don't know much about your ways, but what about Molly? She can't be old enough for such a journey."

"Journey? Yes, I guess we will have to go far. Scary how you figure those things out. The less you know what we are capable of, the better. He will want you back as well. He will catch you and make you talk."

"Yes, he will want me back. I'm not entirely sure if he will want me alive in the end, but he will question me before hand. You would be wise to prevent me from hearing your plans." There was a look of vulnerability on his face. John was fairly sure he hadn't looked like that for years.

"Let's see what we can do about that."

"Be realistic. Your family has no reason to trust me. I have no illusions in thinking you do, either."

In a normal world, on a normal mission there would be no way John would have ever trusted Sherlock. He certainly wouldn't have believed him if Molly didn't. But also something else was happening to him the longer he stayed in Sherlock's presence. He felt the beginnings of a blush, and he was sure his thoughts were visible on his face. "Molly trusts you. That will have to be good enough. I will, however, have to return you to the basement. As much for us as for you. There is no way my family will want you in the same room with them no matter what I believe."

"Do you have something, anything I can read? It's incredibly monotonous being in that room."

John laughed a short bark-like sound. "I'm sure we can find something. Come on."

Once they were inside, John would tell Harry to start making phone calls to the family and to pass the word. They had always had a contingency plan in place in case of discovery and there was a place for them to hide that John was certain no one would know about, not even the great Mycroft Holmes, not even in this day and age of computer technology and tracking systems.

The family had bought several islands along the Nova Scotia coastline. Many people did not realize just how many hundreds of small islands there were. They had paid cash, and the property had changed hands several times or had been purchased with fake ids. It would not be a permanent destination for them, but it would be a place for them to go until they were able to find a new home. There would be some who would not wish to go, those whose blood ran deepest and longest in this land, far from their original ancestors back in the British Isles but they would not hesitate to leave if it endangered their way of life.

"Let's go and tell my father he needs to leave his home." John sighed but then smiled, a deep and natural smile, the first real one he'd had in a long time. He couldn't tell but his face lit up from within, and Sherlock noticed the warmth in John's eyes. He was puzzled for John had been angry and scared for the better part of the last couple of days, angry with Sherlock and scared for his daughter. This expression was confusing.

Sherlock wasn't the only one who noticed John's smile.

Looking out from a small window on the landing, Jack Watson had been spying on his son and the creature sent to kill them, watching to make sure he didn't need to intervene. What he saw in his son's expression as he talked to this Holmes person stirred memories from deep inside.

"Dammit boy! What are you playing at?" he scowled and crossed his arms. If what was happening between his son and that foul creature was what he thought was happening, there'd be hell to pay.

oOo

John took Sherlock back to the room in the basement. He'd grabbed a few books and a magazine or two on his way down. He smiled at Sherlock before apologizing again for having to lock him in once more.

Sherlock sat on the bed, bemused at John's recent reactions. The man was an enigma and full of surprises. He had gone from threatening to dump Sherlock in the ocean to smiling warmly at him and apologizing for keeping him captive. Some reverse Stockholm Syndrome only it had been just a couple of days, and it's not like John had been trying to be pleasant before that.

Sherlock leaned back and picked up a book at random. It was titled The Treasure of Oak Island. It promised buried pirate treasure and an ancient mystery.

A faded memory of playing at pirates floated up, and he smiled softly to himself. His buried treasure of memories was slowly coming back to him. Perhaps one day he'd unearth them all.

oOo

John came back up the stairs, closed the basement door and stood there, quietly contemplating. He almost didn't hear his father come up to him.

"We need to talk."

"Yes, we do. Sherlock believes his brother knows something is up and he knows he's lying to Mycroft. He feels it is only a matter of time before he descends on us. I think we should call a meeting of the Kin and get out of here. Fall back to one of the islands and regroup."

"Oh Sherlock does, does he? How bloody convenient then."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you think it's odd that he suddenly is all tame and accommodating? Haven't you learned anything about wild animals, boy? You can't turn your back on one for a second."

"Dad, what's this about?" And here he'd thought they were beginning to get along. Showed what he knew.

"You are a stupid fool!" Jack stormed off to the living room. Harry, who had been in the kitchen and had overheard the conversation, came out and raised her eyebrows at John. He shook his head at her, just as mystified as his sister. He followed Jack to the other room. He wasn't sure what had gotten him wound up but they needed to make plans, and they needed to move fast. No matter what snit Jack was in.

"Dad, seriously, we don't have much time." He found Jack sitting in a chair, arms crossed and glowering in John's direction.

"I don't have to listen to a word you are saying, boy. I am the head of the Kin in these parts, not you, and the way you are carrying on you're never likely to be, so don't be ordering me about."

"If this is about Sherlock…"

"Sherlock, is it? How come you are so chummy with the man, if we can call him a man, more like a wild animal he is?"

"You're one to talk."

Jack stood, his whole body vibrating with anger. He stepped into John's space. "What have you two been up to down there? What filthy and unholy debauchery is going on behind my back?"

Harry stepped further into the room. "Dad, what…"

"Get out of here. Bad enough your carryings on, turning your back on a natural relationship between man and woman, but now your brother too. How am I suppose to get grandchildren with the two of you acting like this?"

"In case you've forgotten, you have grandchildren. You have Greg's girls and Simon's boy, and apparently you seem to forget about Molly, who is living right here in your house."

"I thought I told you to leave, girl."

Harry stood her ground and crossed her arms. She wouldn't have been pleased if someone had pointed out that she looked uncannily like her father at this moment. "We have names, you know."

"Out!"

"No, she stays. Whatever is going on with you, affects her just as much as me. What the hell are you talking about?" John stood confronting his father with the quiet command. He was just as intimidating as his father, but he didn't have to bluster and bare his fangs the way Jack did. At this moment, he was in better control of his emotions. He didn't want a repeat of his unleashed anger causing havoc.

"You have no idea do you?"

"Not really, no."

"You have gone and found yourself a soul mate, you stupid boy."

'What?" replied John, blinked at his father. He wasn't sure he had heard him correctly. He did hear Harry's quiet gasp.

"You and that…that thing downstairs. And not even a proper match. You and your unnatural ways. That's what comes of meddling and leaving your Kin!" he was shouting so loudly John was sure they could hear him across the Basin.

"I don't have a clue what you're going on about. But as for trusting Sherlock, yes, I believe I do, and I do because Molly does. She says she fixed him, that he isn't the same, and I trust her."

"She's five. What the hell does she know?"

"A lot more than you, it appears. And I don't know what fool idea you have in your head, but nothing, and I mean nothing is going on between Sherlock and me."

Jack narrowed his eyes and appraised what he saw in John's face and what he heard in John's voice. "Maybe not yet, but you want something to happen. I recognize the signs."

"Of what?"

"I told you, a soul bonding. You and that thing, the way you look at him and even now your voice so full of regret. You want him."

John stood there, not sure what to say or do. His father wasn't wrong, he did want Sherlock, wanted him bad, but that was not going to happen. Not here and now when so much else was at stake.

John gritted his teeth. "Even if I did want him, even if I wanted to take him to my bed, I will not, not with my wife newly dead and my five-year-old upstairs sharing a room with me. Besides the fact that Mycroft Holmes is on his way with a team of highly trained agents looking to take my daughter and turn her into a weapon. He will kill anyone who stands in his way, you, me, Harry, all of us. He doesn't care about your leadership or your position. You are no more than a thing to him, a thing to be used or harvested. Do you understand? The way you think about Sherlock is the way he thinks about us."

"He is welcome to try."

"Right, I can see you are going to be just as pig-headed as ever. Harry, start making calls. Tell the Kin we're in danger and if they want to live they needed to get out of here, hide their trail and go to water."

Harry made to move. Jack barked her name. She glared back at him over her shoulder. "Just so you know Dad, you can't order me around anymore." She left, and John could hear her in the kitchen begin the long list of calls she would be making.

"You are more than welcome to join us. In fact, it would be a good idea if you did, because when Mycroft gets here if he doesn't kill you, he will torture you to find out what you know. We will rendezvous at one of the islands if you change your mind, but I won't tell you where we're going after that."

John went into the kitchen to talk to Harry. She was in the middle of dialling but put the phone down when he started talking. "Call Greg in and tell him to leave his boat here and get his family and we'll start with that. I am sure he's smart enough to go with us. Simon and Jenny, too and Mike. Call them and tell them to spread the word. We will leave at first light."

She grabbed his arm. "What Dad said, about the soul mate stuff? You need to get that sorted before we go. There's stuff I know that you don't. You think there isn't time, but you need to go downstairs and do something about it, right now." There was an almost hysterical edge to her voice John seldom heard.

"Are you kidding? There's nothing going on, Harry."

"John, I mean it. It's just as serious as what you told Dad. If you two are bonding, you need to figure it out sooner rather than later."

"What the hell do you expect me to do?"

"If you don't, John, it's not good to refuse a bond. Look, you need to get Molly ready to go, and then you need to take that man out into the water, and you need to bond with him. If you don't if you deny a soul bond, the ocean will turn it's back on you. It's a gift, see and you'll throw it in its face by not accepting it."

"This man just developed the ability to feel, and you want me to say, 'Hey guess what. We get to have sex.' I cannot believe I am having this conversation with my sister."

"John, you know Dad left his first wife and Greg and Simon. He left them because he had to. He had a soul bond with Mum, instantly. He had no choice. It didn't matter if he lost face because of it. You don't either. How is this any weirder than all the stuff you've been through?"

He opened his mouth to say something to her, shut it and tried again.

"What am I suppose to do?"

"Why that's the easy part, John. You just bring him to the ocean, and you give him your skin to hold."

oOo

John had left Harry calling their sib out the back door and jogged up the stairs. He had to pass his father in the living room to do so, and he could feel his glare on his back like hot daggers. He went into the room he shared with Molly and dug around at the back of the closet. Inside there was a special waterproof overnight bag. All selkie families had several. He started gathering essential items they would need; a few changes of clothes, a couple of sweaters, extra socks and pants, Molly's favourite stuffed toy, toothbrushes. Inside a smaller waterproof pouch, he put in the money he had on him, both pounds and dollars, and their passports and the like. He then took out a pair of jeans for Molly to change into, a long sleeve t-shirt and her wellies and raincoat. It would be cold on the water, and he wasn't sure what the island held it the way of shelter. It had been a long time since he'd been out to them.

He then changed into similar clothing. As he was changing, he looked at his hands. He was still wearing his wedding band. He thought for a minute and then removed it and put it in the small pouch along with the few pieces of jewelry that had belonged to Mary.

He looked out the window and could see Molly out back on the hammock. He stood looking at his daughter and thought about what had to happen. He had just uprooted her from the only home she'd ever know, and he was about to take her away from here, too. He wanted to talk to her again about Sherlock, but how the hell do you ask a five-year-old that. The words his father and sister had thrown at him were bouncing around in his head, and he was utterly confused.

He left the bedroom and went down and out to the garden.

"Hey Molls, can I talk to you?" She looked up when he called her name and smiled at him. His heart clenched.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Molly, when you look at Sherlock now, what do you see?"

She thought for a moment and said, "Do you mean does he glow?"

"Yes, sweetie, does he glow?"

"Yes, he didn't before, but it was buried underneath, it hadn't gone not like Mummy's."

"So he had it with him all the time?"

"Uh huh."

"What does it look like?"

She thought a moment. "Kinda like yours, blue and gold, but with flashes of green. When you were on the porch, you were glowing very bright."

"Me?"

"Both of you."

"Okay."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Are you going to marry Sherlock?"

John stood there making what he was sure was a great impression of a fish. "Wh…why do you say that?"

"'Cause you glow more, you both look happy. Not before when you were mad at him, but now you both looked happy."

John cleared his throat. "Ummm…would you be mad at me if I married Sherlock?"

She shrugged.

Good lord, he, though, how does one do this? Her mother is dead less than a week for crying out loud. How do I accept this? When this is over, and I am somewhere quiet, I am going to have a small mental break down.

"Molly, I…umm. I think I need to ask you if it is okay if Sherlock and if we…oh for Pete's sake if I were to marry Sherlock." He said it in a rush, muttered and slurred and he wasn't sure she understood him.

"Will Sherlock live with us?"

"I guess so. I haven't talked to him yet. I wanted to ask you first."

"Do you still love Mummy?"

"Sweetheart, I will always love your mum. She gave me you and she was a part of me, but now there's Sherlock." _God, is she going to understand how fast this is?_

Molly was looking at him with a strange expression. "He's your missing part. He's the part you were looking for only you didn't know it."

"What?"

"You loved Mummy, and she will always be my mummy, but Sherlock is yours. He's a bit mine too, so that's okay. Can I tell him?"

"Whoa, hold up there a minute. No, sorry love, that's my job. He doesn't know anything about this, and I have to show him first. I'm not sure he will be as accepting as you are."

"Are you going to take him to the ocean and have it bless you?"

"Good Lord, Molly, where do you get these ideas?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. If you bring him to the ocean, he'll understand."

"All right, okay. Well, that was not what I expected. Umm, so I am going to talk to Sherlock, but then sweetie, we are going to have to leave Grandpa's and hide from the men who are coming here."

"Grandpa's mad at you isn't he?"

"Yes, I think he is."

"I heard him shouting. He doesn't like Sherlock."

"Well no, I don't think he does. I don't think he understands about Sherlock and me."

"That's stupid."

John laughed. "Yeah, well, things were different when Grandpa was growing up, so it's hard for him.

"Well he should 'cause he had a soul mate and now you have a soul mate and he should understand that you don't say no."

"How do you know all these things?"

"The ocean tells me. It would tell you too if you'd listen."

"Okay, well, all right. You had better come in now and see if there's anything else you want to bring with you. I, uh, I'm going to ask Sherlock to marry me, I guess." What the hell? It wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened so far today, this week, in his life.

oOo

Sherlock had spent the afternoon looking through the books John had given him. He was a fast reader, and they weren't scholarly tomes. John had obviously not looked at them carefully when he handed them to Sherlock. The one about the supposed lost treasure buried on nearby Oak Island had made him feel a little nostalgic as he read it. After a few chapters, he put the book down, memories of his faithful dog Redbeard were clamouring up to the surface. He felt the unaccustomed welling of tears in his eyes. Apparently he was still emotionally compromised and didn't feel he could read about pirates at this time. He then glanced at the other titles and settled in with a book about botany. That was less stressful.

It was also not nearly as engaging as he had hoped; he found his mind beginning to wander. That was unusual. He was normally extremely focussed and had no problem reading something in which he was interested. It was possible he was still adapting to the new him. Molly had changed him profoundly.

It wasn't about Molly he was thinking. Every time his mind drifted it was John whose face crowded his thoughts; John full of righteous anger, John taking Molly out of the room, John standing in the sun on the deck whilst he spoke with Mycroft, the little thrill of electricity that had run through him when John had put his hand on his arm. He had wanted to feel it again, so he had reached out to stop John, to grab his arm, but had only caught hold of his sleeve. The way the sun shone on his head and then he had smiled. That smile, when he lit up from within, and his whole face glowed. It was all Sherlock could do to stand there and not place his hands on John's face and…

He frowned. _And what? What did one do?_ It's not like he was a virgin. He had certainly had sex. A bright burning shame filled him. He had not had sex he had not made love. He had used and abused people. It's what he had wanted to do to John, back, before.

Now…

Now he wanted to hold John, he wanted to touch him and kiss him. He wanted to make love to John, slow and gentle and have him reciprocate.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid man. John wants nothing to do with you. You are like a lovesick teenager. You know nothing about the art of love. _

He closed his eyes and tears trickled out of the corners. Before he could get worked up and lose control of this new flood of emotion a calm filled him. He could hear, when he concentrated, the sound of the ocean and the play of waves on the beach. It was odd, though. He shouldn't be able to hear it down here. The walls were too thick.

The door rattled, and he sat up. John entered the room.

"Hi, I just came down to tell you something."

He appeared oddly flustered, and he couldn't quite make eye contact with Sherlock. He knows. He knows how I feel and he wants nothing to do with me.

"Something has happened, and there's something I need to tell you, but I don't quite know how."

Sherlock sat up and tried to appear attentive, but his heart was hammering so loudly he could no longer hear the waves.

"Your father is angry, and you are planning on leaving by morning if not sooner. He is not happy about your plans and he is upset about something else." Sherlock frowned at John, not sure he was seeing what he was seeing.

"You know you and Molly should get an act and go on tour. How the hell do you know all that? No, wait, never mind there isn't time. All right. Yes. We are leaving. We are going to go and hide someplace for a few days and then move somewhere else. I wanted to know if you'd come with us." John was definitely blushing. Why was he blushing? A thrill was building up inside of him. He didn't want to think what he was thinking incase he was wrong; he hated being wrong.

"But you shouldn't take me, I could endanger you."

"Well see, here's the thing. I think you are supposed to come with us. I can't leave you behind to fall into your brother's hands. For one thing, Molly wouldn't like it and for another, well, I, uh, wouldn't like it."

Sherlock said nothing, only continued to stare at John.

"So can I show you something?"

"Yes."

"Okay then, come with me."

Sherlock stood up off of the bed and followed John up the stairs. The house seemed quiet although he could hear Molly and John's sister Harry talking upstairs, faint and hushed. There was no sign of Jack Watson. A vague disquiet flowed through him, but he dismissed it when he saw John was waiting for him at the door, holding it open. He had two beach towels in his hands. He had this look on his face, both pleading and trusting that made Sherlock's stomach flip. He didn't know what was going on, but there was something about John that made him want to trust him badly. He followed John out the door and down to the garden. He was leading him down the driveway and across the road. Dusk was descending rather rapidly, and impossible colours of a glorious sunset painted the sky. Because of the direction of the house, the sun was behind them and hidden by large pine trees and it made it darker here earlier.

John led him across the road. The day had been warm, and he could feel the heat of the road through his shoes. They walked out onto the dock. John stopped at the end and then turned in Sherlock's direction. The light was fading, and it was getting harder to see John clearly. The moon wouldn't be up until later, but the stars were coming out, becoming more visible as the sun descended.

"It's beautiful here."

"Yes, it is. I missed it. Only I didn't know I had missed it."

There was something in John's voice, his words vibrated on Sherlock's skin, and anticipation was building up making his blood thrum. He wasn't sure what was about to happen, but it felt momentous.

"Sherlock, I know this has been strange for you. All of this. It's been strange for all of us."

"It has been incredible, John."

"What was it like? Before?"

"Before Molly fixed me? You wouldn't have liked me. I was cold and brutal, a foul and base creature full of vile thoughts and deeds. I can't believe I am the same person." A shudder ran through his frame. "It was my brother's doing. I know that much. He, he changed me somehow. I was different when I was younger. More like Molly, I'd like to think." He shrugged. "I have much to pay for, the crimes of my past, but so does he."

"He ordered Mary's death."

"Yes, he did."

"Why?"

"He had reasons."

"Sherlock."

It was all John needed to say. He told him everything he knew, from the files Mycroft kept on them.

"He wanted Mary eliminated because he knew she was going over to an enemy government, hiring herself out, partly for revenge. She was changing. John, I read her file. The experiments they had put her through made her different."

"Was there another reason?"

"Yes. He wanted Molly. He thought you would be more malleable with Mary out of the way, with a dead wife and being a single parent. He doesn't understand the love a parent has for a child. Who would you turn to but the Agency? They took you in and gave you a home. You are still valuable to him. Or you were. I am not sure he will want you alive now. He will definitely want Molly."

John collapsed to the dock. Sherlock watched not sure what to do. He could make out John's shoulders. They were heaving and then he heard a sound.

"Oh!" He moved over to where John was, and he knelt down beside him. He thought about Molly and what she had shown him and he put his hands on John's shoulders. An electric thrill ran through him. He thought the wind must have picked up because it seemed as if the waves were crashing harder on the shore.

John cried deep, shuddering sobs and even though Sherlock's knees were beginning to hurt he didn't move. Instead, he found himself getting closer to John and somehow John's head was on his chest, and he had turned sideways and Sherlock had wrapped his arms around his body. It felt warm and right, and Sherlock lifted his hand to run it through John's hair.

"I am sorry, John. I know this has been a shock. I don't want to tell you this, but you need to know. The Agency planned for you to have children. They were hoping that by having their more talented agents have families they could raise an army of special children. She did love you and Molly, but the experiments were driving her mad. She would have turned on you if she hadn't left."

John raised his hand and wiped his eyes. "I can't believe you are saying sorry."

Sherlock felt his stomach tighten. John was angry with him. He shouldn't have said that. He didn't understand these feelings well enough.

But then John lifted his hand and touched Sherlock's face, and he looked at John and he could see that he wasn't angry with him; his expression was soft and full of wonder.

"You are the most remarkable thing I have ever seen. Did you know that?" John's voice was barely a whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the waves, but he did. He leaned closer, not quite knowing what to do so he mimicked John's touch and stroked his face.

John laid his hand over Sherlock's and pressed it to his cheek.

"Come. I want to show you something."

He stood, and he began to strip off his clothes. Sherlock's heart began beating a little faster, and he felt strangely lightheaded. Very quickly John was naked, but before he could really make out anything, John turned and dove into the water. His dive was perfect, and he made very little splash. Sherlock stood, walked to the end of the dock and stared into the water. He got there in time to see John surface and brush the hair off of his face.

"Come in Sherlock. It's cold, but I think you would like it."

Sherlock hesitated. There was a jangle of nervous energy, and he didn't know what to do with his hands. And then he could see John was looking at him, wide-eyed and trusting. He knew he had to. His clothes quickly joined the pile of John's and stood there, self-consciously, his hands over his privates.

John called up to him. "There's a ladder at the end of the dock. Climb down and come in."

Sherlock nodded and lowered himself slowly into the water. It was cold, but it was invigorating, and he found himself slipping into the water easily. "You should know I don't swim very well."

"That's okay. Come over here to the side of the dock; it's a little shallower here."

Sherlock dog paddled over until his toes brushed the rocks and sand of the Basin bottom. He stood; the water was up to his waist.

"Okay stand there and don't move."

"All right."

John ducked under the water and was gone long enough that if Sherlock hadn't known what John was, he would have started to worry.

He felt something brush his leg, and he let out a shriek. He was not sure he liked this. A moment later a head surfaced, and he could make out the dog-shaped head of a seal.

"John?"

The seal slapped a flipper down on the water, and it splashed him a little,

"Stop that!"

The seal came closer and nudged his hand as if apologizing. He bobbed his head up and down at Sherlock and slowly circled around him, occasionally brushing him lightly with a flipper. Sherlock reached out and tentatively touched John's fur. It was coarser than he had thought it would be, although it was also, oddly, smooth and sleek from the water. Another shock travelled through him.

The seal was moving around him in a slow circle, occasionally brushing him with a flipper, small touches, more curious than anything. Sherlock was self-conscious of his nudity but not as much as he had been when John was human. He reached out again, and his fingers skimmed along the brown, wet back of the seal. The thrill he kept experiencing with each touch was stronger. He noticed the water didn't feel as cold as it had when he first entered, and the air was warm enough that he shouldn't be shivering, but he was. The skin on his stomach tightened, and his mouth felt dry. The hum that he had heard ever since he had woken up the first time in this house was louder. He followed the progress of the seal and saw him dive again under the water. John came up flinging his hair back and stood.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice lower than he'd ever heard it. "I want to give you something."

"Yes?"

"I want to lay my skin at your feet and have you wrap me in your embrace. I want you to take up my skin, fold it and place it in your heart. I want you to join with me. I know my shores are not like yours, but will you make a home with me in the ocean?"

The words didn't seem like something John would usually say; they didn't seem like a learned piece; they were a proposal and a pledge, both ancient and new.

"Yes John," was all he could say in return. John waded closer to Sherlock and raised his hand. He trailed it up Sherlock's chest, one finger following the goose bumps raised on his flesh. He brushed over his nipples and Sherlock jumped a bit. John was following the course of his hands watching were they led. He then laid his hand flat over Sherlock's heart.

"Your heart and mine are one. This is a blessing from the ocean." He stepped closer and Sherlock could feel the warmth from his skin near his own. John laid his other hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and leaned close, so close he could feel his breath on his damp skin as he spoke into the crease where his shoulder met his neck.

"I want to kiss you."

"You may.

"I don't want to alarm you."

"You don't."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't."

"May I touch you?"

"You already have." And Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. He could feel him, from their mouths to their chest to their cocks both full and hard, pressing against each other, warm, skin to skin, kissing not just with their mouths, embracing, not just with their arms. He crushed John's mouth with his own. John opened his mouth, inviting, and their tongues touched tentative and then bold and Sherlock didn't think after that. His brain, always so noisy, always thinking just experienced this moment, let it happen.

There was no sound except the water and the wind. In the shadow of the dock, there were no eyes to pry and watch this most ancient and sacred of acts. John's hands were both gentle and firm, and he moved them everywhere, never lingering on one spot long, but sweeping, pulling Sherlock with him, rocking with him like the waves, heightening his pleasure, all of his pleasure, it was for him. John was giving him the gift of his skin on his own. Sherlock had never been held like this in the embrace of his lover nor by the embrace of the ocean. The water lapped at him, and John moved with him. His hands much smaller than Sherlock's, finally, finally reached under the water and grasped them both. Sherlock was panting now, his breath coming out in gasps. John leaned into his chest and left open mouth kisses on his inflamed skin. Sherlock moved his hips in time with John's thrusts, and it wasn't long before he was crying out, spent, the sound seemed much louder, here on the water as it was reflected back. John shouted soon after, quieter than Sherlock's, his seed joining his in the salty water, mixing together, an offering. He wasn't sure where from where that thought had come. He wrapped his arms around John, once more, pulled him close, once more and never wanted to let him go.

John grinned, tiredly. "Well, I've never tried that before."

Sherlock touched John's cheek. It had become darker while they had made love and the light from the stars seemed caught in John's eyes. He gasped because his eyes almost glowed. Even though he couldn't see him clearly, he was as beautiful as the night sky, standing there, cloaked in the dark and water.

Sherlock kissed him, softer than before, gentle and warm, small kisses, each lingering longer than the one before, each one wanting to tell John of his feelings, passing them to him like treasures from the sea. And John, beautiful John, kissed him back, his hands wrapped firmly around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer to him as if he were trying to drag him under his skin and join them together.

The air was beginning to lose its warmth and John murmured it was time to go; they had much to do. He swam the short distance to the ladder and climbed, Sherlock got an excellent view of John's backside, and John laughed at him as he helped him up the ladder. There were more touches and kisses as they dried each other off, and as they helped each other into their clothes. John picked up the wet towels and held his hand out to Sherlock, who took his smaller hand in his own.

"John, I never…that is to say…no one has ever touched me like that." He felt his skin burn with shame as he thought once more of the past and his treatment of others.

"Shh, that's behind you. You couldn't help who you use to be." He brushed Sherlock's wet hair out of his eyes and looked up at him. "Promise me, Sherlock, promise me you will learn to forgive yourself?"

"I will try, but John there are so many memories, so many horrors buried in here," he pointed to his head, "I don't know if I can."

"Then I will help you." He stood up on his toes and kissed Sherlock on the mouth once more before they walked back across the road, hand in hand.

They paused for a moment on the other side, and John looked back at the ocean whilst Sherlock looked above at the night sky. There was such a thick scattering of stars above their heads it looked like a picture from a book he barely remembered from when he was a child. He thought of the way the author had described the night sky, and he heard himself saying, _"'And the stars were scattered across the sky, like jewels thrown at the feet of God. If he reached up, he would have brushed them with his hand, and they would have fallen to the earth.'_"

"That's beautiful. What's that from?"

"I can't remember. It just popped into my head." He turned and could see John silhouetted by the light reflected off of the water. Across the Basin, the summer cottages were strung with lights, and faint voices could be heard.

Oddly he could still hear a hum, but it seemed to be getting louder and was not coming from the ocean but the trees.

He frowned. There were odd lights coming in the direction of the humming. "Do you hear that?"

John glanced at Sherlock and then toward the lights. He recognized that sound and it filled him with dread.

"They're coming," he said to Sherlock, as two helicopters came into view over the tree line.


	10. Separated by the Sea of Fate

**A/B: I am so sorry I took so long to update. Real life, no energy, the fun times that is depression and other things conspired against me.**

**This is the end of part 1. Yes there is a cliffhanger. Yes there will be a part 2. Yes there will be a happy ending-eventually. It just may take a bit of time as I work out the details. I think I will continue in this same story, but I haven't fully decided yet. I may go to a new story:D because that's fun too and I need a new Selkie song as I have used most of the lyrics for the first one for chapter titles;)**

10\. Separated by the Sea of Fate

The thud of helicopter blades filled John's senses as he ran heedlessly to the house. Panic screamed at him, pushing him to get to Molly as fast as possible. He was dimly aware of Sherlock running beside him. He raced up the driveway, the scree and slide of stone under his feet making him stumble. The garden beside the house wasn't large enough for the helicopters to land. They would have to put down further on the road, but he bet they weren't alone, and there would be cars coming shortly. Resignation at the sight of figures lowered from helicopters, he had expected as much.

The screen door flung open and he practically ripped it off of its hinges as he ran into the house, screaming Molly's name. Harry popped her head out of the living room, her face white.

"Oh God, what is it? What is it? Are those 'copters?"

"They're here. They've come for us! Get down to the docks! Go!"

"Not without Molly! Dad! We need to go!"

Sherlock had run past John and already reached the staircase; he yelled back, "I have her!" He came back down the stairs two at a time with a sleepy Molly in his arms. She was dressed in the clothes John had laid out, and the bag he had packed was in Sherlock's free hand. Harry reached her before John could.

"Go!" he repeated. "I'll get Dad." Harry held Molly tight and took the bag from Sherlock as she ran for the door. John looked around the downstairs of the house quickly, but there was no sign of Jack. Sherlock grabbed him and spun him around. "You need to leave. I can delay them. I will find your father and bring him. But you must leave." He pulled John close and kissed him, harsh and urgent and then shoved him away in the direction of the door.

"No, I am not going without you. We are not even going to argue about this."

"You can hide in the water. I can't. I can make them think I am on their side."

"Don't lie to me. You said Mycroft knew. They will know you are not one of them anymore."

"Perhaps. John, please. I can, and I will talk my way out of this. I need you to go. Go and be safe. I will come back to you. I promise."

"Not good enough." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and started tugging him in the direction Harry and Molly had disappeared.

The sound of breaking glass made them both duck down as shots fired at the house. John wanted to, needed to race to the window and see if Molly and Harry had made it to the Basin.

Sherlock crawled along the floor gesturing for John to follow. They reached the basement stairs, and John followed Sherlock down. There weren't as many windows down here and with the lights off the intruders would not be able to see in. The basement door had better protected from the tree line. John grabbed Sherlock's arm before he could open the door.

"What about my father?"

Sherlock's face, half hidden in the minimal light seeping in through the basement windows, looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think we both know how they knew precisely where we are. "

At the first sound of the helicopter blades cutting through the air, John had suspected as much. He nodded, tightened his heart against his father. He could never forgive him. "Right, you're right. Okay then. We do this my way. I hope to God Harry, and Molly made it down to the dock. I am going to open the door. Get as close to the ground as you can. Harry should have finished calling everyone before this so hopefully there's a boat or something for you and Molly."

"John, no let me finish." Sherlock reached and stroked John's cheek. "I meant what I said. I can stop them and give you time to get away. They don't know I am not part of their schemes anymore."

"And I said we are not arguing about this." John placed his hand on the doorknob. The team sent against them most likely had infrared scopes and night vision goggles. His eyes rested on the lighting panel beside the door, and he flicked the nearest switch. Bright light flooded the front of the house, and he heard muffled yells from the trees.

"Pays to have bright yard lights in the winter," he grinned at Sherlock and then spoke with an exaggerated East Coast accent. "Gets black dark here."

"Good call."

They slipped out the door and raced toward the road. John's skin crawled, and his flesh tightened as he prepared for the feel of bullets entering his skin. There were some sounds of movements through the trees, but they made it to the dock without incident.

Reaching the dock, John could just make out a small dingy out on the water, most likely Greg's. It wouldn't take long for the helicopters to find it. In fact, they were already heading their way and would be there in a second.

"Shit. Okay here's what we are going to do. I am going in the water. You follow. I will change and haul you to the boat. You'll need to hold your breath."

Sherlock shucked his shoes quickly as John started to strip. Neither of them got very far when the voice rang out. A voice they both recognized.

"Captain Watson, I would advise you stop what you are doing and kindly put your hands up.

"Oh for God's sake. Mycroft came. He never leaves England."

Under different circumstances, John would have smiled at the note of disgust in Sherlock's voice.

"John lad, do as he says."

Of course.

"They will kill me if you don't come."

"They're going to kill you anyway, Dad," John said under his breath.

"I can still get us out of this. Please, John. Let me try," Sherlock pleaded with him.

John shook his head slowly at Sherlock and turned toward Mycroft and the group of men ranged behind him. His father stood to the left of the group, not quite on the dock. If nothing else he could give Molly and Harry time to get away. _Please_, he thought, _let them already be on Greg's boat or far out to sea_. He took a step closer to Mycroft Holmes and his father. He already anticipated the answer to his question but because of the desperation in his heart, he said it just the same. "If I come, will you let my daughter go?"

"I am sure we can come to some arrangement."

There was a hiss from behind him. "He's lying."

John looked back over his shoulder. "I know. Delay tactics."

"Come now, Captain Watson. You would do well to come to me before something unfortunate happens."

John took another step forward. A shot rang out from behind them, from the trees.

He felt a thud, like a punch to his left shoulder, and on the wings of the anguished cry of his name, he went into the water.

Above the yelling and shouting, Mycroft barked out, "Stop shooting this instant. You might hit me. And bring me the fool who fired that shot."

Sherlock prepared to jump after John when he saw a flicker of movement out the corner of his eye. A seal was swimming below the dock. He didn't think it was John, but whoever it was would take care of him, better than he could. He thought quickly Delay tactics was what John had said. All right then.

Drawing himself up to his full height and sweeping into a persona he had hoped he had left behind, he drawled, "Well done, Mycroft. You couldn't wait. Your impatience has cost us dearly. I almost had him. I'd almost won his confidence when you and your imbecile men show up and send them into hiding. You've lost the girl because of this. Call off your men, let me get back to work and see if I can fix this."

"Oh, Sherlock. You can lie to these men, and you can even lie to yourself but you cannot nor will you ever be able to lie to me. I heard you when Captain Watson fell into the water." Mycroft approached him and disdain rolled off of him. His hand came out and clenched onto Sherlock's shoulder. A sharp pain drove him to his knees. Mycroft leaned down and whispered into Sherlock's ear, a caress, a veiled threat. "I heard you. I heard your distress. You think you love him. My dear brother, you are not capable of such low emotions."

He patted Sherlock's hair. "I know you, you see. I made you who you are. It's time to come home, Sherlock. I will fix all of this and take care of you. We will make you better and then, my dear brother, only then will I set you free. Gentlemen, if you would please, take care of this…mess." A group of men descended upon Sherlock and pinned him to the dock, handcuffing him. A few well-placed kicks and hits, a blow to the head, prevented him from rising.

Mycroft was speaking to the officer in charge, ordering him to use the helicopters to sweep the Basin and the area for boats or seals. There was a scuffle as Jack Watson was hauled away; his useless yelling about what he'd been promised lost in the din.

Chaos swirled through Sherlock's mind. The wooden planks bit deeply into his expose skin; slivers shoved into his flesh as he was hauled to his feet. He risked one last glance out to the ocean. It was impossible in the dark to see clearly but for a moment, he entertained the hope he saw a dark head surface through the waves.

_John_, he thought, his heart all but breaking. _Swim, swim far away and hide. Before I come back. _

oOo

He didn't remember tumbling gracelessly into the water. The agonizing burning in his left shoulder blocked coherent thought. Flashes of images painted the inside of his eyelids, but nothing made sense. Water flowed over his head, and the usual welcome rush that encased him when he went in wasn't there. He'd entered an unfamiliar and hostile environment, not his natural home. Barely thrashing, the instinct to struggle slammed out of him as pain and heat crashed over him, and the knife-sharp feel of salt water stung the entry wound that had pushed him off of the dock. He barely avoided crying out, some self-preservation reminding him to keep his mouth closed. The lack of air burned in his lungs. A bitter, iron taste lingered in his mouth. As he came up, some force lifted his head above the waves, and he coughed, sputtering. Air hit his shoulder; sharper deeper pain erupted from his wound, and it almost made him black out.

"Steady on, now. Keep still," a quiet voice whispered harshly in his ear. It wasn't the one he wanted to hear. "John?" John managed a feeble nod. He recognized Greg's voice on the second hearing. "God damn it. What the hell happened?"

John looked at him blearily, then the shock and blood loss won out and he remembered nothing for a long time.


End file.
